Hearth and Home
by The Solaris
Summary: All Lothíriel ever wanted, was a quiet life by her beloved sea. But fate had other plans: thrown against her will into an arranged marriage, she will soon find out that there are hurdles worse than an unwanted husband she will have to face if she ever wants to find home again.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The Lord of The Rings is the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. This is a work of fanfiction and no financial profit is made by writing this.

**Chapter 1**

_Rohan, February the 1st, 3018_

Lothíriel rubbed her eyes and sighed: to say that she was tired, was an understatement. She felt exhausted, worn-out, utterly spent…

Ten days spent in the saddle, riding dawn till dusk, in the wind, in the rain and eventually even in the snow, with a freezing wind continuously pounding on them. Ten sleepless nights spent on the hard cot of her tent, trying her best to silence that inner turmoil that left her awake at night and drained at day.

She wasn't even sure how she had managed to make it that far. The past few weeks had been one long, uninterrupted nightmare. One that had turned her life upside down, making ashes of all she had loved, all she had hoped for her future.

There were times when she just wished she could cry out her anger. Others, when she simply wished the ground would swallow her. Every morning, at the first sounds of the awakening camp, she would drag herself out of her tent and put on a mask that would hopefully convince everybody that she was fine. And so she would do for the rest of the day, hiding the numbness and the angst away and trying to keep at a minimum the interactions with the people around her.

Not that it was hard, to be honest. With the exception of a polite greeting in the morning and one in the evening, her husband hadn't spoken a word to her since they had left Minas Tirith. And though she often felt their eyes on her, his men – more than a few of whom didn't speak the common tongue, kept their distance.

The only trouble was her husband's squire: Léod. A young boy, probably only a few years younger than herself, he had been her shadow for the past ten days. He always rode by her side or, if she told him to go away, a few steps behind. Whenever getting on – or down the saddle, he was there offering help. Every unfinished meal he would look at her wide-eyed, stammering about _what would my Lady like to eat?_ And if he ever suspected she wasn't feeling well, he would start pestering her without an end.

_Is my Lady unwell? My Lady looks pale! Did my Lady sleep well last night? How is my Lady doing?_ _My Lady is shaking, please take my cloak!_

She felt like one more _my Lady_, and she could throttle him! Even his clumsiness, which she would have found amusing under normal circumstances, was getting on her nerves. Over the past few days, the boy had managed to: trip on his own feet – once a day at least, crash against a tree, spill hot stew on his own breeches, step into a pond – a frozen one luckily, and even let his cloak catch fire. She didn't know what was about her that made him so nervous, but she was fairly sure she had had enough of it.

Right on clue, the boy flanked her and gave her a goofy smile: "Seems like the weather is finally turning for the better!".

Lothíriel stared at him for a moment before lifting her eyes towards the sky: if that was how these people called a weather _turning for the better_, she did not want to know what the _turning for the worse _was. Or maybe she already knew it; indeed, if she had to describe the weather in Rohan with one sentence, that would surely be: _there is always something falling on your head_. If you were lucky, it was just a freezing rain. In the worst case, it could be snow or even hail. In addition to that, she could not even recall the last time she had actually _seen_ the sun: the clouds were so thick and low above their heads, that she couldn't even point at where the sun was. And to make things even worse, for days they had done nothing but going through what felt like an endless sequence of fog banks: at times, in the morning, she could see the mist rising from the streams or from the soaked ground, she could feel it sticking to her clothes, to her skin, to her hair… a few more days in that forsaken land, and she might just start moldering!

"You will see, my Lady: once the sun comes out, you will see how beautiful Rohan is".

Lothíriel barely managed to refrain from snorting, for she did not need the sun to know how that land looked like: a desolate expanse of grass, cursed with an inclement weather and barely populated at all.

Dead.

That was how Rohan looked like: in the seven days since they had crossed the Merin Stream, they had encountered only three travelers on the road, come across two settlements and, with the exception of a few birds, they hadn't seen nor heard any animal.

A land more different from Dol Amroth, probably did not exist. Her home by the sea was a blaze of colors, lively and vibrant: the deep blue waters of Lond Cobas, the white cliffs dominating the bay, the evergreen gardens, the climbing roses. And then the crowded harbor, the musicians playing in the streets and entertaining nobles and peasants alike, the vessels scattering the sea, from the tiny fishermen's boats to the great sailing ships of her father. Every single day of her life she had awoken to that marvelous spectacle, occasionally partaking in it but more often than not admiring it from the reassuring quiet of her father's palace.

Dol Amroth was _her home_, the place her heart belonged to, the place where her memories had been forged.

And now, it was gone.

Feeling a lump forming in her throat, Lothíriel tried to urge her mare forward, foolishly hoping the damn boy would not follow her.

"Is everything alright, my Lady?", the squire asked, leaning slightly towards her.

She nodded, trying with all she could to hold back the tears.

Léod narrowed his eyes, unconvinced: "Are you sure, my Lady? Aldburg is very close, but if you need a break I'm sure that Lord É…".

"I said I'm fine! Would you just let me be for once?", she snapped.

A deep blush spread on Léod's beardless cheeks and he stammered something unintelligible as he finally held back the reins of his horse to give her some privacy. A few riders glared at her but she ignored them, focusing instead on the road in front of her and almost holding her breath as she waited for the city of Aldburg to finally emerge from the mist: even though she knew her fate had long been sealed, arriving in what was supposed to be her home for the rest of her days gave her an almost overwhelming sense of dismay.

How could that happen? How did things manage to go so terribly wrong?

Only one month earlier she had been sitting on the sill of her room, sipping on her tea with Bathor's soothing purr to keep her company, her only preoccupation being when the books she had asked her cousin for would finally arrive. And now there she was, in a foreign land, surrounded by strangers, with only a small chest to carry fragments of her old life into her new one.

Three books, four dresses, a necklace which had belonged to her mother and a carefully stored drawing set: that was all she had been allowed to carry with her. Everything else, everybody else, she had been forced to leave behind.

Like Gaeril, her sweet maid, to whose warm smiles she had awoken every morning of her life. Gaeril, who knew her better than anybody else: she knew what she liked, she knew what she did not like, she knew when she needed to be alone and when she needed the company of an old friend. Gaeril, who had been too old to move to Rohan and thus had been forced to stay behind: the day her ship had set sail towards Pelargir, she had stood longer than anybody else on the docks, a tiny smile on her lips, her eyes misty.

Or Bathor, her beloved cat, her oldest and most trustful friend. Bathor, whom she had found on the beach of her father's palace many years before, when she had been but a child, still trying to cope with the sudden loss of her mother. A bundle of fur and flies he was, and to this day she could still remember her father's horrified expression when she had pleaded him to allow her to keep the wee little kitten with her. Only after throwing a veritable tantrum, had she managed to convince him and for the following thirteen years, Bathor had never left her side, entertaining her with his antics and soothing her his constant purring. But like Gaeril, Bathor too could not follow her: not only he was old, but also almost completely blind. Even if he had survived the nightmare that travelling to Rohan was, she knew he would have never settled in in a place he did not know, could not see, a place packed with foreign smells and stranger noises. On the day she had left Dol Amroth, she had held him tight and cried shamelessly, knowing all too well that the odds that he would still be alive the next time she would manage to visit Dol Amroth, were pretty darn low.

Lothíriel sighed but before she could continue entertaining herself with the thoughts of those she had lost, a loud echoing of horns had her jumping in her saddle, her heart racing. More horns rang in distance and seeing how the riders around her were smiling broadly, she knew they had finally reached Aldburg.

Scanning the landscape in front of her, she eventually caught sight of a wall, a gate, and then some buildings.

At first, she thought Aldburg to be just as dead as anything else in Rohan. The streets were totally empty and if it wasn't for the steady columns of smoke rising from the chimneys of the cottages, she could have bet the city wasn't inhabited at all. However, unlike the settlements they had crossed on their way from Gondor, as soon as they stepped onto her muddy streets, the city quickly came to life: doors banged open and a few children run towards them, careless of the rain and clearly very eager to welcome home their fathers.

In front of her, a rider hauled a young boy in the saddle, earning himself a delighted squeal and an enthusiastic hug. Observing him as he held tight the child, his eyes shut and a blissful smile on his face, Lothíriel felt as if someone had punched the air out of her body: never in her whole life had she ever felt more alone, more out of place.

When her husband stopped by her side and politely asked her to follow him, all she could do was staring blankly at him, unable to formulate any type of response. It was only when Léod extended an arm to take Rohiril's rein and guide her up the street, that she realized she was dumbly standing in the middle of the way. She looked around: the eyes of the whole city seemed to be fixed on her and sure enough there was curiosity, but there was also something else. Many seemed wary of her presence there and she even spotted two young girls pointing at her and whispering Valar knows what to each other, before sharing a sneering laughter.

Immediately, Lothíriel felt a sense of uneasiness spreading inside her: she may have been a Princess of Gondor, but she had always hated being in the spotlight, she had never been like those ladies who basked in being the one everybody is looking at. But if anything, being raised in Gondor had taught her how to behave in such situations: squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she snapped the reins from Léod's hands and urged Rohiril forward, feigning indifference to her surrounding and only occasionally glancing around.

Although bigger, Aldburg did not look much different from the other Rohirric villages she had seen. Located on a small hill and defended by what looked like rather modest walls, the city was entirely built in wood and, contrary to Dol Amroth, none of the streets were paved. The main road winded around in several bends before finally leading to the highest point of the city, where a larger building – calling it palace would have been unfair, stood out over the town. Staring at its wooden façade, Lothíriel couldn't help but thinking that when compared to the grandiosity of Minas Tirith or the sophisticated elegance of Dol Amroth, the old seat of the Kings of Rohan looked like merely more than a farmers' village.

Again, Léod appeared by her side: "May I help you dismounting, my Lady?".

Lothíriel rolled her eyes: at least arriving in Aldburg meant she could finally get rid of the boy.

Ahead of them, her husband had already dismounted his huge grey stallion and after a quick glance towards her direction, he strode towards the entrance: Lothíriel watched in disbelief as he accepted a cup from an elderly, stern-looking woman, before disappearing inside the building without even saying one word.

She clenched her fists: how she hated him! How she hated them all!

Her hands shaking with rage, she dismounted her mare and pushed Léod aside.

Perfectly tuned with the rest of the villagers, the old woman who had welcomed her husband greeted her with cold, almost hostile eyes: "Welcome to Aldburg, Lady Lothíriel".

_Lady Lothíriel. _No longer _Princess_. No longer of _Dol Amroth_. She barely suppressed a growl as she snapped the cup from the woman's hands and swallowed its content: it was awfully sweet and she regretted it immediately.

"I am Meregith, Aldburg's housekeeper. And this is Runhild", the old housekeeper said, introducing a young girl with red hair and a multitude of freckles spread on her pale cheeks. "She is the daughter of our healer and has spent some years in Minas Tirith with her father. She speaks fluently the common tongue and as such, Lord Éomer has chosen her to be your handmaid".

Lothíriel bit down an angry remark about the thoughtfulness of her husband: "I shall thank him later for his _kindness_. Right now, I feel very tired: Runhild, I want a hot bath to be immediately prepared and I want dinner to be served directly to my room".

The girl exchanged a hesitant look with Meregith: "I…o-of course, my Lady. Come with me, I'll show you to the master bedroom", she finally said, making way inside the dark ally in small, quick steps.

Lothíriel followed her, too angry to even notice her surroundings and wholeheartedly hoping her husband would find another _master bedroom_ to sleep in.

If anything, he hadn't forced her to _that_.

The evening of their wedding, she had entered their bedroom as a bundle of nerves, tears threatening to spill from her eyes at the idea that she would have been forced to lie with him, to allow him to use her body as he wished. She had sat on the bed, waiting for him, and when he had finally entered the room, her fingers had gripped almost painfully at her knees. But he hadn't moved from the door, the light of a single candle only partially lightening his features. _You were forced into this marriage as much as I was. I won't force this on us as well._ He had wished her goodnight and spent the night in an adjacent study, sleeping on a ridiculously small sofa.

Now, she could only hope he would find another couch where to spend his future nights.

All of them.

* * *

"You shouldn't have married her. She is a spoilt, arrogant, haughty girl. She doesn't belong here", Éothain muttered, waving his beer in front of him.

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose: "And what would you had me do?".

"Anything but marrying her. You could have married someone else! Literally _anybody_ else would have been better than her, even Sorrun!".

"Who's Sorrun?".

"Dungar's sister. You know her: short, plump and as bitter as gall".

He chuckled: "I think you're exaggerating".

Éothain snorted: "I'm not. I mean, have you seen her? Her Royal Highness Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth hasn't spoken more than a word over the past ten days. Maybe we're not good enough, maybe our ears are not noble enough to be graced by the sound of her voice".

Éomer sighed: "I had no choice, Éothain…".

"I know, damn it! I'd really like to know what was on Théodred's mind when he came up with this _brilliant_ idea", he snapped.

"I've told you a thousand times: he had wanted to marry her himself, but Grima convinced the King that it would have been unwise to have a Gondorian as Queen of Rohan one day", Éomer explained, feeling his patience running thin.

"Well look at that! I'd have never expected to agree with that Wormtongue on anything in my whole life, but it seems I was wrong! Bema, I bet she's as warm as an ice-block in bed". Éomer threw him a murderous look: "What? You want to tell me she makes for good sport?".

"Can we change subject?".

Éothain's eyes widened, his mouth gaping: "Hold on a moment: are you serious? _You_, the most wanted bachelor of all Rohan- after your cousin naturally, but being the heir to the throne he would be wanted even if he had the looks of an orc; _you_, at whose feet girls throw themselves wherever you go; _you_, spent your wedding night as a cast virgin?!".

He rolled his eyes: "Bema, Éothain. We are strangers…".

"Half of the girls you bedded were strangers. I bet you can't even remember all their names", he rightfully pointed out.

"This is different!", he retorted. "She's my wife, she's young, she's a virgin and knowing Gondor, she probably has no clue as to what happens in a bedroom between a man and a woman. No, it is for the best to wait".

Éothain snorted: "If you think she'll ever welcome you in her bed, then you'll wait for the eternity. Which is why, if I were you, I'd prepare myself for a long, very long chastity and f…".

The arrival of Runhild put an abrupt end to Éothain's ranting and Éomer mentally thanked the girl: things were already bad as they were and Éothain's cynicism was definitely unnecessary.

"My Lord, the Lady Lothíriel has decided to have supper in the bedroom…".

"No way, who would have guessed!", Éothain declared, mocking a shocked expression. "Éomer, I'd purchase some Gondorian chairs if I were you. Maybe they would be fit for her royal…".

He slammed his mug on the table: "Enough!".

Runhild winced, her eyes shifting nervously between him and Éothain: "It's…it's just that the Lady is very tired and so…so she thought…".

"It's alright, Runhild", he reassured her as he stood up. "Do me a favor and tell Meregith I'll eat in my study".

Ignoring Éothain's glares, Éomer crossed the Hall: one more spiteful remark, and he would have thrown him out of the hall. As if things weren't already complicated enough, as if he hadn't enough problems: orcs raiding the land, herds decimated, harvests destroyed, the King growing weaker by the day, a wife he had not wanted, whom hated him and would probably welcome the day an orc would finally manage to put his filthy sword through him. Now Éothain as well!

_Open war is upon us, Éomer. We need to strengthen our ties with Gondor, _his cousin had told him, only a few months back. Grima had found many grounds to oppose the idea of a wedding between Théodred and Lothíriel, but there hadn't been much he could say about him. He wasn't going to sit on the throne and though related to the King, he was but a Marshall. Indeed, marrying a Princess of Gondor was something that in normal circumstances would have been considered way beyond his reach. In normal circumstances, he would have been left free to decide who to marry and when.

But there was nothing normal in the times they were living in and if there was even the slightest chance that marrying Lothíriel might have helped Rohan one day, how could have he ever refused his cousin? No: Théodred was right. With the enemy slowly but inexorably closing on them, they needed all the help they could get.

That was the only reason why he had agreed to the wedding and the day he had met Imrahil, he had even dared hoping that his marriage with Lothíriel wouldn't have been a total catastrophe. He seemed a good man, had welcomed him warmly to his house and, unlike most of the Gondorians he knew, he hadn't looked down upon him. His son Elphir and his nephew Boromir too, had left him with a positive impression. Surely the daughter of such man couldn't be that bad.

The moment he had seen her, he had immediately understood his mistake.

She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he had ever met. There was a tinge of green in her grey eyes: framed by long lashes and black eyebrows, they were almost hypnotic, unsettling. Unlike most Gondorian women she was quite tall, surely taller than his own sister. And she moved around with such grace, that it almost looked as if her feet never touched the ground, as if she was floating.

Floating, yes: a few inches above them all.

Indeed, his appreciation for her aesthetics hadn't lasted longer than the blink of an eye. She had greeted him with polite words but the disdain, the loathing in her eyes had been impossible to miss. It was everywhere: in the way she looked at him, in the way she would always put some distance between them, as if his mere presence by her side might have spoiled her refined beauty, in the way sometimes she would abruptly disappear, as if taken by a sudden urge of being as far as possible form him and his men.

He had seen the discomfort and the embarrassment in Imrahil's eyes, he had seen him dragging her aside, no doubt to scold her for her behavior. She hadn't cared. Actually, she had looked at him the same way. His words hadn't had any effects and not even during the ceremony, had she had the decency of giving it a break. Imrahil had tried to apologize for her: _this was all very unexpected for her, I'm sure she will see reason._

She hadn't so far and he doubted she ever would.

What was most infuriating wasn't the way she looked at him. That he could take, he could blame it on the fact she was forced into that marriage: who knows, maybe she had wanted to marry someone else and was forced to do otherwise. It was a hatred he could understand.

No: it was the way she looked at everybody else that was infuriating. The way her eyes had scanned his men head to toes, as if they were disposable goods. The way she had stared at the villagers, as if afraid their simple manners and dirty clothes could be contagious. The way she had eyed every house, every building, as if they were nothing more than a pile of shit she had been forced to step on.

No wonder Éothain thought even Sorrun a better choice. And though he had been the only one to speak plainly, he was fairly sure that every single person who had been lucky enough to make Lothíriel's acquaintance thought the same. But what could he do now? They were married: married according to the Gondorian law _and_ to the Rohirric one. There was no turn back, they were stuck together whether they liked it or not!

A knock on the door interrupted his brooding: Meregith entered the room and as soon as the smell of roasted pork and potatoes reached his nose, his stomach rumbled. He grinned but was rewarded with a frown: "What is it?".

She didn't answer, instead placing the plates in front of him, her movements frantic.

"Meregith?", he called her, bracing himself for another unpleasant conversation.

She threw her arms in the air: "Who does she think she is?".

Éomer sighed: if that was how his days were going to be from now on, he might as well deliberately fall on the sword of the next orc. "What happened?".

"She arrives, starts bestowing orders without even caring for being introduced to the household, she retreats to _your_ bedroom and find any possible reason to complain: the water is not enough, the water is too cold, the water is too hot, the scent is not to her liking, the food is too heavy, the ale is bitter. When she is done, she orders Runhild out and slams the door behind her!".

"I will speak to her".

"Ah! And you think she will listen?!".

Éomer rubbed his eyes: "First Éothain, now you. Meregith, please: have mercy".

"I held your mother's hand when you came into this world, Éomer. You're too good for the likes of her, you deserve better. You deserve a woman who would welcome you home after a long day and make you forget about all the awful things happening outside of these walls".

He smiled: "Doesn't everybody deserve such luck?".

"I don't care about everybody, I care about you. She will make your life, our lives, impossible".

"Maybe she just needs some time to come to terms with her new…situation", he tried to put in, his voice unconvinced.

"Maybe. Meanwhile, I guess I shall better prepare one of the guest chambers for you".

* * *

The sun had not risen yet when Lothiriel eventually decided to get up.

Not that she was used to waking up early: in fact, back in Dol Amroth she had _never_ woken up early. But there was a limit to the number of hours she could spend tossing from one side of the bed to the other, wishing desperately to catch some much-needed sleep while being simply too restless to catch any at all.

She pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders as she walked towards the window: it was a moonless night, the streets were dark and empty, the city still asleep. The unmistakable call of an owl broke the silence but all Lothíriel could see, was a shadow flying fast above the roofs of the city.

Sighing deeply, she retreated to a chair and sat down.

She looked around: Aldburg's _master bedroom_, meaning her husband's bedroom, was the most impersonal room she had ever seen. Despite being huge, it had only a few furniture - a giant bed, a couple of chests, a desk with two chairs, an armour stand. The dark walls were completely unadorned and there seemed to be absolutely nothing to account for her husband's previous presence in the room: no books, no letters, no personal belongings, no clothing around. Nothing.

She thought back of her room in Dol Amroth: dozens of carefully stored books, a block of white paper and a box full of charcoal for her sketches, two elegantly carved wooden cases where she kept her correspondence – one for her cousin's letters, the other for her aunt's, paintings on the walls, a neatly organized vanity, two big closets… Much of who she was and what she liked, could be easily guessed by just looking at her room. But then: what did that empty room tell her about her husband? What type of man was he?

In a sense, she already knew.

Arranging their wedding had taken months of negotiation, of couriers hurrying to and from the palace of Dol Amroth; dozens of letters had been exchanged, details agreed upon, and yet not him - nor her father, had thought it sensible to inform her. Not until the very last moment, at least.

What time of man marries that way? What time of man does not wish to be introduced to his wife _before_ the wedding, even if just in writing? What type of man rides in the city one day, marries the next and departs on the following? What time of man answers with a dry _I have no time to spare in Gondor_, when his wife of just a few hours asks him for a couple extra days before leaving her family behind? What type of man allows his riders to make fun of his bride without saying a word?

Her father might have called him _horselord_, her father might have called him an _honorable man_, but she could see no _lord_ and surely nothing _honorable_ about him.

Nor about her father, for the matter: he had always been her hero, the rock behind which she could find shelter from any storm, the one she could trust with her life, because he loved her and because he would have never betrayed her, he would have never forced her into something she did not wish for herself. Even though combined weddings were normal among Gondorian nobility and very rarely women could afford the luxury of choosing the man with whom they would spend the rest of their life, she had always thought that such fate would not have been bestowed upon her. Because with three older brothers the succession of the House of Dol Amroth had never been her concern, but most importantly because she had never wished to marry. While normal girls of her age dreamed about it, she had never cared for it and her father knew it, her father had never pressed her. And so for years she had given for granted that she would have been left free of doing whatever she wanted with her life, just like her beloved aunt.

There had been no sign, no clue of what was going to happen. Apart from the sudden appearance of those foreign-looking couriers, with their green cloaks and unusual blonde hair, that is. But she had never cared for her father's political undertakings, hadn't even asked who they were, why they were there.

She wondered: had she asked him, would have him told her the truth? Would have he admitted what he was planning for her and given her some time to prepare for what was to come, to bid farewell to her life as she had always known it?

Probably not. And for that, she hated him.

She remembered clearly his words: _a horse fit for the bride of a Horselord._

Yes, for all his supposed wisdom, for all his supposed sensitivity, that was how her father, the mighty Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, had chosen to tell her that she was to marry a Marshall of Rohan. He had summoned her to stables, pointed at the most beautiful mare she had ever seen, smiled at her and whispered in her ear: _a horse fit for the bride of a Horselord._

Valar, at first she hadn't even understood who he had been speaking about! _Who's marrying? Which Horselord?_

So stupid, so naïve!

The moment she had understood the _she_ was the bride and a Rohirrim the Horselord, she had cried. Oh, if she had cried! She had yelled, she had screamed, she had cursed her father, but nothing had managed to make him change his mind. Desperate, she had run back to her room with the intention of locking herself inside and never come out, not until all that madness had ended. But once there, she had been despaired at finding Gaeril already busy packing her belongings. She had tried to stop her, she had teared the dresses from her hands, pulled the gowns out of the chests and back into her closets. To no avail: for each dress she would pull out, two more would be put in.

It had been then that it had first happened.

Faced with the irreversibility of her father's decision and with the fact that there was nothing she could do to escape her faith, she had felt a rush of panic surging through her veins, the kind of which she had never experienced before. Hidden in a dark pantry – the first empty room she had come across, she had gasped for air, she had felt her heartbeat accelerating to the point she had thought she would have simply died. But she hadn't and instead, an uncontrollable sobbing had shaken her body.

She didn't know for how long she had cried, for how long she had stayed in that tiny room: all she knew was that by the time she had finally managed to muster enough courage and strength to get out, the sun had already set and the whole Palace was in uproar, thinking she had run off to escape the wedding.

Ah, now that would have been a smart idea! But who did she want to fool: she was but a Princess and she wouldn't have lasted one day on her own.

Over the course of the following days, twice more it had happened: twice more she had felt that sudden rush of heat creeping up her neck, twice more she had found herself reduced to a shaking mess, barely able to draw enough breath to keep alive, twice more she had been forced to hide in the most improbable places, least someone might have seen her. For the whole length of the journey to Rohan, she had been terrified by the idea that it might have happened again. Only then, she would have had no place to hide, everybody would have seen her. She had spent her days trying to keep that awful little monster inside her at bay, focusing on anger rather than sadness because somehow, some why, that seemed to be the only deterrent she had.

But in the loneliness of that big, dark, empty room, it was so damn hard to do so…

* * *

**Author's notes:** so here I am with another story!

I had meant to start posting it much earlier, but life has been busy and although I had the story pretty much outlined in my head, I found it very difficult to write it down. I had planned on waiting until I had a few chapters ready before starting to post it, but eventually changed my mind. _To Grow Into Love _was my very first attempt at writing a fanfic (let alone in English) but I quickly realized that reviews were beyond motivating and that they truly helped me in making the story better (hope so at least). So in the end I figured I should better start posting the story immediately and see how it goes!

It goes without saying that updates will be slow (haven't yet written chapter 2…). But as I already said in the past: I never leave things unfinished so even though it might take some time, I am committed to complete this story.

As it's probably already clear at this point, this story is very different from my previous one but hopefully will turn out into something nice. This chapter might have been a bit confusing and without much characters' interactions, but I thought it was needed in order to set a few key aspects in place. If you have suggestions of any kind, I'd me more than happy to read them! Once more, I'd like to remind you that I'm not a native English speaker and that mistakes are to be expected. If there is any interested Beta out there, I'd be glad to get in touch!

As for me, end of last year I finally managed to realize a long-time dream of mine and spent a few weeks travelling across New Zealand. All I will say is that it truly is a breathtaking country with some of the kindest, friendliest people I have ever met. In fact, I'm fairly sure I left a little – maybe not so little, piece of my heart down there!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Aldburg, February the 2__nd__, 3018_

Éomer breathed deeply in the cool morning air and allowed himself to enjoy the peace of that moment: the sun shining above his head, the sound of the ice cracking under Firefoot's feet, the White Mountains towering over them in all their snowy majesty… was there anything better?

"I swear I've never seen a man so happy of going on a patrol in the middle of winter", Éothain teased him.

"Maybe It's because _this man_ had the wisdom to retire at a decent hour yesterday, without having indulged in too much food and in too much ale", he retorted, earning a collective chuckle from the rest of his men.

"Some may call it wisdom, others may call it old age. Who am I to judge?", Éothain rebutted.

"Would you please remind me again how old are you? I seem to recall that there is but a few months' difference between us, but it must surely be a trick of my old mind…".

"Yes, yes, you two are both disgustingly young", Gárwine stepped in, scratching pensively his bearded chin: "Though I must say Éomer, I was myself surprised about leaving for a patrol already today. I was expecting you to spend a few days in Aldburg to help your wife getting acquainted with the place…".

Éomer glared towards Éothain, hoping it would save him from another round of _you should not have married her_ ranting. Luckily for him, it worked: the man rolled his eyes but kept from saying anything, stirring instead his horse towards the rest of the group and leaving him alone with the older rider.

"I am confident that Meregith and Runhild will be able to show her around even if I'm not there to supervise the whole thing".

Gárwine turned towards him: "_Supervise?_ Éomer she is your wife, not a recruit you need to supervise before allowing her to join your Éored!".

"Come Gárwine, you know what I mean. And it's not like we will be gone for long: tomorrow or latest the day after we shall be back. She'll have time to rest and…".

"And how did she take it?", Gárwine interrupted him.

"How did she take what?".

"That you were leaving so soon and without a pressing reason to do so".

He shrugged his shoulders: "I don't know, I asked Runhild to tell her".

"You asked Runhild to tell her?", Gárwine echoed him.

Éomer shifted uncomfortably in his saddle: "I believe she was still asleep when we left. And since we will only be gone for a couple of days, I deemed it unnecessary to tell her in person", he explained, feeling somehow the urge to justify his actions.

"May I speak plainly, Éomer?".

"You know you can, Gárwine".

"Very well. Then allow me to say that you should be home with her. And that even if you had been forced to leave – which you haven't, then you should have at least told her so, whether she was asleep or not".

Éomer sighed: "It's complicated, Gárwine".

"Marriages always are, especially arranged ones. Take the advice of an old man who's been married for over twenty years: we can take care of this patrol, you don't need to be here. Just go back to Aldburg and spend some time with your wife".

Éomer rubbed his eyes: Gárwine was probably right, he should have been in Aldburg and he shouldn't have left that way. The problem was that just the idea of having to deal with that Gondorian harpy, made orcs look suddenly very, very appealing. "I did not want to be there with her and believe me, she didn't either", he finally admitted.

"I take it the rumours about you two not particularly liking each other are true then?".

He snorted: "_Not particularly liking_? That's quite the understatement, Gárwine. Go meet her and then we'll speak again about my marriage, if you still wish to".

The older man narrowed his eyes: "Is she really as bad as everyone says?".

"If you mean unbearably snooty and insufferably arrogant, then yes. For any detailed account, feel free to ask my poor squire or Éothain: he makes a great impression of our dear Princess".

Gárwine sighed: "I'm sorry to hear that, Éomer. I truly am. But that doesn't make my point any less valid: you should be in Aldburg with her".

"I don't think you understand how bad things are".

"I do, Éomer. The thing is: you may go on all the patrols you want but at some point, you will have to go back home and she will still be there. Avoiding each other won't dissolve your marriage nor will make it any better, so maybe it wouldn't harm if the two of you tried to find a common ground. Surely it would make both of your lives better…"

"You think I haven't tried, Gárwine? After her father introduced us I tried to speak to her, tried to get to know her, proposed to spend together the small time we had before the wedding, but you should have seen her: she barely spoke a word to me, she barely looked at me! And during the wedding? Same thing! Oh, and shall we speak about the ride to Rohan? She spent the whole time looking at everybody like she wanted to bite our heads off and mistreating Léod, just because the poor boy was trying to help her!", he hissed back, anger rising quickly at the mere thought of his wife.

"Seems like she really incarnates the worse stereotype of a Gondorian lady", Gárwine finally conceded, shaking his head: "What can I say… I only hope that given time, things will somehow improve and that the both of you will find some sort of…happiness - or contentment at least, together".

Éomer smiled: "Thank you, Gárwine. I think you are the first person who actually _asked_ me how it was going, instead of directly complaining about my wife and questioning my decision to marry her".

Gárwine waved a hand in front of him: "Please, Éomer: only a moron would not understand _why_ you married her. I was a boy when I started serving under your father and now here I am, riding proudly next to his son: these plains have taken much from you, you've spent your whole life with a sword in one hand and the reins of your horse in the other, and now you're willing to commit your future by marrying a woman you did not choose. All for Rohan. I believe we owe you at the very least some understanding and some respect for the choices you've made".

Éomer stretched an arm on the other man's shoulder: at nearly fifty years of age, Gárwine was by far the oldest rider of his Éored. And yet he was still one of the best ones: not only he was a brave soldier, but also his best tracker and a cunning strategist, whose sensible advices had often managed to compensate that innate impulsiveness he had inherited from his father. "You know Gárwine, I think from now on I should try speaking more often to you and less to Éothain and Meregith", he said with a grin.

"Éothain and Meregith? Is it them complaining and questioning your decisions? Come, Éomer: Éothain…well, Éothain is Éothain. He cares about horses, he cares about ale and he cares about which of the tavern girls he will bed tonight. You can't really expect him to give sensible advices about _anything_ else. As for Meregith, we both know she had other expectations".

"Yes, yes…finding the right woman, marrying for love, and so forth. I've lost count of how many times she has told me over the past few months".

Gárwine gave him a sceptical look: "The _right woman_?". He snorted but before he could add anything else, a lonely rider rushed towards them at full speed, bringing news of yet another orcs' sighting.

_So much for a routine patrol_.

* * *

Lothíriel wearily opened one eye, confused: her throat was awfully dry, her neck hurt and she felt cold and so impossibly tired.

Kneeling in front of her, Runhild circled her waist with one arm and forced her on her feet, slowly guiding her towards the bed. She only had the time to briefly wonder why she had been sitting on the floor, before her eyes closed again and she fell back asleep.

It wasn't until much later that she awoke again.

Runhild sat on a chair next to her bed, a crochet in one hand and a dark brown yarn in the other. The moment she stirred, her head snapped up towards her: "My Lady, you are awake!", she told her with a smile. Putting aside the piece of clothing she had been working on, she hurried to the door and exchanged a few quick words with whoever was on the other side, before closing it again.

Lothíriel sat up on the bed: "How late is it?", she asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Almost supper time, my Lady".

"I've slept the whole day?!", she asked incredulous.

"Yes, my Lady. But don't worry, what matters the most is that you feel better", Runhild reassured her, looking way more at ease in her presence than she had the evening before.

Lothíriel tried to remember what had happened and slowly, the events of the previous night came back to her. Nervously, she glanced towards Runhild: "You found me… sleeping on the floor?".

The girl nodded: "I did, my Lady".

Lothíriel stared at her, her mind racing and desperately searching for a possible explanation to her behaviour. Sleepwalking maybe?

Someone knocked on the door and after a few more whispered words, Runhild came back with a fully-loaded tray. She placed it on the nightstand and carefully passed her a cup of hot-steaming tea: "It's alright, my Lady. We don't have to talk about it, if you don't wish to".

Lothíriel took the cup with trembling hands, unsure what that meant: had Runhild seen her _before_ she had eventually fallen asleep? Could it be that she had not heard her entering the room? If so, had she realized what was happening to her?

Runhild took a small jar from the tray and held it in front of her: "Hot porridge and cheese is normally served for breakfast. But I remember from my time in Minas Tirith that Gondorian ladies prefer fruits in the morning. There isn't much more than apples and pears at this time of the year, but I thought you might have liked this".

Confused by her maid's odd behaviour but still unable to come up with something sensible to say, Lothíriel stared at the jar for a moment before hesitantly dipping a spoon into what looked like a dark-red gelatine. It was clearly a confiture but of what, she did not know: it tasted sweet but also tart at the same time, with tiny seeds inside and there was something almost…almost floral about it.

"And?", Runhild encouraged her.

She nodded and the girl took a thick slice of dark bread from the tray: "With or without butter?".

"With, please", she answered in a whisper.

She grinned: "Everything tastes better with some butter on it, doesn't it?".

Lothíriel nodded again and though she did not feel particularly hungry, she found herself enjoying the taste of that strange confiture: "What is this made of?".

"Raspberries, my Lady".

"Raspberries?".

"Yes, they look a bit like blackberries, but they are red. I am sure you will like the fruit even more than the confiture, but I'm afraid you will have to wait until the summer for that", Runhild explained, already preparing a second slice of bread. "So: what would my Lady like to do today? We still have an hour of light and it has stopped raining for the moment, so if you wish to go for a short stroll to see the town…".

"I will stay in my room", she cut her short, sounding way harsher than she had meant to.

"Of course. I bet riding all the way from Minas Tirith in this awful weather has been anything but pleasant", Runhild told her with a smile. "Then, would it be alright if I unpack your belongings or would you rather do it yourself?".

Lothíriel glanced at the small chest she had brought with her from Dol Amroth: "I only have a few things with me…".

"It shall be quick then!", Runhild said, snapping up from her chair.

She dragged the chest until the bed and kneeled in front of it as she started going through its content.

At the top were a few gowns. Not the most beautiful ones she possessed, but rather those Gaeril had thought more appropriate for life in Rohan: a dark grey one with black embroideries, a purple one with white sleeves, a scarlet one that she didn't particularly like but that was definitely the warmest dress she had ever owned. To her surprise, the fourth dress was the silk blue gown that her father had given her as a present for her last birthday. Runhild lifted it up and stared at it wide eyed: "Oh my, this is beautiful!".

Pushing the blanket aside and ignoring the biting cold, Lothíriel stood up: "I had no idea it had been packed".

"Why not? I mean: sure, it's not a dress you can wear everyday, but if I owned something so beautiful, I'd never accept to be parted with it: _n-e-v-e-r_!", Runhild said, putting a great deal of emphasis on the last word and shaking at the same time a finger at her direction.

In spite of all, that got her smiling: "To tell you the truth, I only wore it once. I am always so afraid that it might get soiled or damaged if I wear it too often...".

"Ah, I can't wait for you to wear it! Hopefully next summer you'll be able to and... oh, now that's one audacious neckline, my Lady!", Runhild declared, nudging her with the elbow as she admired the back of the dress.

"I know and I would have never thought about wearing something like this, but my mother… she had a dress just like this", she said, gently brushing her fingers along the smooth skirt.

"She died?", Runhild guessed.

"Yes".

The girl placed a hand on her arm: "My mother died as well, almost four years ago. There isn't a single day that goes by that I don't think of her".

"At least you remember her, Runhild. You remember what she looked like, you remember what her voice sounded like, you remember what her touch felt like. I…I have no memories of her, I was only four years old when she passed away and I can't even remember her face", she admitted, feeling an overly familiar sense of guilt growing in her chest. "My father has a beautiful portrait of her in his study and so whenever I think of her, I see the young, beautiful woman in a blue dress that is portrayed in that painting".

"This dress?".

She shook her head: "Not exactly the same, no. My mother was a small woman and no matter how much I'd have liked to wear her dresses, they have never fitted me. This is a present I got for my birthday, the perfect replica of the one she had once had".

"A beautiful gift, my Lady. I can't wait to see you wearing it: I'm sure Lord Éomer will…".

"Lord Éomer will nothing", she hissed back, her mood suddenly turned upside down by the simple mention of her husband's name and only barely managing to keep herself from blurting out all the disdain she felt for the man.

However, seeing the way Runhild blushed and lowered her eyes visibly embarrassed, she found herself regretting her words. Not because she had not meant them, but because of all the Rohirrim she had met over the past two weeks, the girl seemed to be the only decent one, the only one who hadn't looked down upon her nor made her feel like an unwanted guest. Not even on the evening before, when her husband behavior and the one of all those people looking and staring at her as if she was an exotic animal performing at the local fair had made her so absolutely livid that she had ended up blowing off the steam on her, treating her in a way that had been anything but kind: she had complained about everything she could have thought of and even though the girl had been clearly on edge in her presence, all she had done was smiling and trying to accommodate her every wish.

Sure, maybe she was just being very good at hiding her true feelings; maybe she hated her just like anybody else around there. But somehow, she felt like that was not case: she had been very considerate after finding her sleeping on the floor, she had presumably spent the whole day by her side just to ensure she was fine, she had gone the extra mile to prepare her a breakfast that would have suited her palate better than a Rohirric one and she had been empathetic enough to understand she did not wish to speak about what had happened the previous night.

"Why…why don't you hang the dress in the closet, so that then we can finish going through my things, Runhild?", she suggested, trying to ease the atmosphere.

The girl smiled but before she could say anything, a resolute knock on the door interrupted them. Meregith strode in the room, looking even more stern than the day before, however that was even possible: "I see my Lady is _finally _awake", she drily noted.

Runhild jumped on her feet: "We were just going through my Lady's belongings, Meregith. I am afraid it will take us a bit longer to take care of everything, so...", she hurried to say before being abruptly interrupted by the housekeeper.

"One person is more than enough to hang a few gowns in a closet. You may finish what you have started while I introduce Lady Lothíriel to the household _and_ to her duties", she said, already walking back towards the door as if giving for granted that she would have ruefully followed her.

Lothíriel glared at her: the nerve of the woman! First, she knocks and without even waiting for an answer, she storms into the room. Then, she makes clear in a not so subtle way how disappointed she is by her sleeping throughout the day. Finally, she starts bestowing orders on both of them! "As you can see we are very busy, Meregith. Whatever plan you had for me, it will have to wait", she growled back, wishing the woman out of her room as soon as possible.

"I'm afraid I have to insist, my Lady...".

"You may go now", she cut her short, hoping the old crone would not choose to ignore a very clear dismissal.

Meregith stared at her, unabashed: "Getting acquainted with the household is one of your duties. You are the Lady of this hall and it is expected of you to become familiar with it and to take decisions when the Lord Éomer is absent. Which, as you may guess, happens rather frequently during these times".

Lothíriel felt anger mounting fast inside here: how dared she speak to her in that way? Who did the woman think she was to tell her what she should - or should not do? "_If_ and _when_ I'll decide to visit this…_place_", she spat out opening her arms, "it's none of your business, Meregith".

The old woman stepped forward, totally unaffected by her outburst: "This is not Gondor, my Lady…".

Lothíriel laughed then: a sneering, mocking laugh. "As if I could ever mistake this place for Gondor!".

Meregith turned red and for a moment, Lothíriel thought she would have actually stricken her: "A man like Éomer is wasted with someone like you!", the woman hissed through gritted teeth.

Lothíriel towered over her but the old hag did not back off: "I am a Princess…".

"You ain't no Princess anymore. And even when you were one, it was but a title!".

Lothíriel gasped: "How dare you speaking to me like that?!".

Suddenly, Meregith chuckled: "As I said, this is not Gondor. You don't want to see to your duties? Very well, lock yourself in this room and never come out! Worry not: Runhild will see that all your needs are satisfied and that you are granted all the comforts you wish for. But if you think your former title or the fact that you are the Marshall's wife will buy you our respect and loyalty, you are sorely mistaken".

"I don't care for your damn loyalty, Meregith! I did not want to come here! I did not ask for it!", Lothíriel yelled, her voice sounding almost hysterical, her hands closed in tight fists.

"Nor did Éomer wanted to marry you", Meregith retorted.

"He did not have to leave his home, his family, his friends. I had! I had to forsake all I had, all I was to marry him!".

Meregith stared at her up and down, a strange look in her eyes: "Do you expect any of us to pity you? Do you have any idea how many women…", her voice almost cracked then, but she recovered swiftly, "…how many women would have liked to be in your place? A maid to see to your needs, a soft bed to sleep on, warm meals served to your room, a bath readied whenever requested, guards at your door. And above of all: a man like Éomer as a husband, a good man, a brave man, an honorable man".

"They can have him any time they want for all I care!", she yelled before forcing Meregith out of her room and slamming the door shut, feeling tears too dangerously close to debate any longer.

Runhild still stood by the bed, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed on the tips of her toes. Lothíriel opened the door again: "I'd like to be alone, Runhild".

The girl nodded and without uttering a word nor daring to raise her eyes from the ground, she hurried out.

* * *

Éomer sighed as he stepped out of Frumgar's hut: a rider with a broken leg, one with an arrow stuck in his thigh and one with a concussion. Still, things could have gone worse, much worse than that.

Slowly, he made his way towards the hall: after ten days spent chasing a group of orcs with barely any chance to get a decent rest, after having fallen into a carefully planned but - luckily for them, poorly executed trap, after a bitter fight which had left three men with serious injuries and many more - including himself, with an ample variety of bruises, he felt utterly spent. Yet, he could not stop thinking about what had happened, about how those filthy creatures were becoming bolder, smarter and better organized than they had ever been before.

Sure, orcs had always used to set ambushes on them and his own father had died in one of them. But what he had seen over the past few days was something totally different, something that must have taken a lot of planning, a lot of organization and a lot of patience.

First, they had intentionally allowed a scout to spot a small group of orcs moving towards a village. Then, as soon as him and his riders had shown up, they had fled East, making them confident that a small, unorganized group of orcs was all they were dealing with. They had lured them deeper into the wilderness, exhausted them and their horses, before eventually driving them where a much larger - and rested, group of orcs had been waiting for them.

Éomer stretched his neck left and right, trying to relieve his muscles: he had not expected the chase to turn into an ambush. Nobody had, not even Gárwine. There had been no track on the way to indicate that more orcs had passed by, which could only mean two things: either the main group of orcs had come from another direction or it had been waiting there for long enough for the weather to erase all the tracks. Either way, it spoke in volumes about their level of organization and commitment.

Things were changing, their enemy was evolving, growing in strength.

And them? Did they have the force to face it, to contain it?

Had they asked him a few years back, he'd have had no doubt about it. Now, he did not know: he forced himself to show confidence and optimism in front of his men, but behind closed doors the weight of a future which had never looked more uncertain, burdened him and kept him often awake at night. He'd have liked to give more to his people, to build a better future for them, but the more time passed by, the more he felt like simply surviving to see another day was kind of a great victory itself. Over the past year he had lost more men than ever before, seen villages - whole villages, not just small settlements, being burned to the ground and their inhabitants slaughtered and even travelling along the Great West Road was becoming more and more dangerous. He knew what they needed to better protect their borders: more horses, more riders and better defenses for their villages. His cousin knew it too and yet all their pleas had fallen on deaf ears with the King.

His mood considerably darkened, Éomer climbed the stairs leading to the hall. As usual, Meregith was there to greet him: "Welcome back, my Lord".

He had told her a thousand times that she did not need to welcome him so formally after each patrol, that she did not need to wait for him in the cold while he took care of his men. But nothing was ever going to make her change her mind and ultimately, he was glad for it, for coming back home without seeing her there wouldn't have felt the same.

He drunk his cup and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they made their way inside the hall: "It's good to be back home", he told her with a smile.

"And it's good to have you back, my dear. How are the men?", she inquired him.

"Reasonably well: Adwig broke his leg after his horse fell on him and will need a few weeks before being able to ride again; Baldric was wounded in his leg by an arrow and Edgar was thrown from the saddle and hit his head on the ground. They will both need some days' rest but otherwise we are all fine, just very, very tired", he reassured her.

"Thought so, which is why I had dinner – your favorite stew, just so you know, served to your study".

Éomer sighed in relief: he was in no mood to sit in the hall with the rest of the household just to explain over and over again what had happened, pretending all was good and there was absolutely nothing to be worried about. "Ah, Béma be praised! Whatever will I ever do without you, Meregith?".

"You'd be lost, of course!", she told him with a grin.

He laughed and once they had reached his study, he gladly accepted her help to remove some of the layers of his armor: that stew she mentioned smelled delicious and the sooner he could get to it, the better! He almost winced as he unbuckled the upper plate of his armor and of course it did not go unnoticed to Meregith's keen eye: "Are you alright?".

"Yes, just a few bruises: nothing that a good night sleep can't heal", he lied, masking the pain in his chest as best as he could so that she would not worry about him. "Anything happened here? All good?", he inquired, trying to change the topic.

"Moderately".

Éomer narrowed his eyes: "Moderately?".

Meregith sighed: "All is good, Éomer. A few more families moved into the city but not that many that we need to concern ourselves with food stocks, a stable boy injured himself while trying to impress a lass and a letter from Éowyn has arrived yesterday. Normal routine one could say".

"Good...".

"However, we need to talk about Runhild", Meregith interrupted him.

Finally freed of the weight of the armor, Éomer sat by his desk, ready to enjoy his meal: "What about her? I spent the last few hours with her father and he mentioned she was doing just fine".

"Probably she doesn't want him to worry, but I would urge you to reconsider her assignment with your wife".

_Your wife_. Béma, with all that had happened he had almost forgotten about her! "What did she do?", he asked, knowing all too well that the woman must have put in some remarkable effort if Runhild already wanted to quit.

Back in autumn, he remembered that when Imrahil had informed him that Lothíriel wouldn't have brought any handmaid with her, he had considered carefully his alternatives, and choosing Runhild had been an almost too obvious choice: sure, she spoke fluently the common tongue and was at least familiar with the Gondorian etiquette after having lived in Minas Tirith for a few years with her father. But even more importantly than that, or maybe _because of that_, she was a very open person who cared little - if nothing at all, for prejudices. As such, he had felt confident that if there was a maid who could have helped his wife in transitioning from life in Gondor to life in Rohan, that was Runhild. Of course, at the time he had not known what his wife would have been like but still, he was surprised that Runhild was giving up so soon.

"I don't know from where I shall start, truthfully!", Meregith said, pacing back and forth: "Since she has arrived she has never - never!, left her room. She sleeps for the most part of the day and by the time she requests breakfast, the kitchen is already busy preparing supper! She pretends almost a bath per day and spends her days in the bed or sitting by the window, doing absolutely nothing. I went to her after you left, offered to introduce her to the household and as a response I was unceremoniously ushered out of the room, but not before she had her chance at making clear how much she despises us, naturally!", she blurted out, her face turning visibly red.

Éomer laid back in his chair and put down his spoon, his appetite suddenly lost. He was simply too tired to take care also of his wife's tantrums: "What would you have me do?".

"I've had more than enough of her arrogance and her insults, Éomer!", Meregith hissed.

He stared at the ceiling, trying with all his might to keep calm: "You all speak to me as if there was an easy solution to all of this. We are married, Meregith: no matter how difficult she is, it's not like I can write to her father that _sorry but we didn't get along _and send her back to Gondor". Meregith made for saying something but he stopped her before she could get a word out: "And do not start telling me again that marrying her was a mistake!".

"Marrying her _was_ a mistake, but that's not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say is that if _I_ have had enough of her, think about that poor girl who has to cope with her all day, every day! Béma knows what happens behind those closed doors, Béma knows how that _Princess_ treats her!", she spat out.

"She still needs a maid though".

"And why would that be? She anyway never leaves her room...".

"She is a noble Gondorian Lady, I can't possibly refuse her the right to have a handmaid", he explained, feeling he was quickly reaching the end of his - notoriously not so big, patience.

"Me and the other women working in the household could take her of what she needs. I just don't see why we have to ask Runhild to take it all on herself: she is a young smart girl and she deserves better that!".

Éomer stared pensively out of the window.

Runhild had been working with the horses for the past year and a half and the stable master had always spoken very highly of her. It was a job that normally only lads would do, but she was no less talented than any other boy and, in addition to that, she had more than enough temper to keep in line anybody who would dare questioning her presence there just because she was a girl. Because of that, he had been skeptical that she would have accepted leaving her job in the stables for one as a handmaid and at first, she had proved him right. However, after only a few days she had unexpectedly approached him and explained that she had changed her mind. He had been so relieved that he hadn't even asked what her reasons were but at this point and judging from Meregith's words, he felt rather confident that she was regretting her decision.

His wife did need a maid, but maybe Meregith was right that Runhild was wasted for that job: "Have Runhild to come here tomorrow early morning and I'll see what I can do", he conceded.

Meregith sighed, visibly relieved: "Thank you, Éomer. I suppose I shall better leave you to your meal now and ensure that a bath is readied in your room".

Éomer observed her as she walked towards the door: Meregith was a woman of great temperament - even by Rohirric standards, but also one who wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice everything she had for those she loved.

Life had beaten her hard, harder than the most he knew.

Orphaned at a young age, she had been raised in Aldburg's hall. Through the years, she had become his mother's best friend and had ended up marrying one of his father's men. But after only a few years of marriage he had fallen sick and died within a few, atrocious weeks, leaving her alone with their two young children. The older one - Léofa, a boy who was the spitting image of his father, died in a cart's accident when he was only fifteen. And then there was Dawyn: born only two years after him and three before Éowyn, the three of them had grown up together and for many years they had been inseparable.

Although they had shared the same looks, Dawyn couldn't have been any more different from her mother: a sweet, quiet girl, he had never heard her rising her voice or arguing with anyone. She had had many suitors but she had never paid them any attention, living instead a rather secluded life in the hall. And then all of a sudden and without providing much explanations, a few months back she had informed him that she had decided to move to her father's hometown in the Westfold and start a new life there.

He had been surprised to say the least but, at the same time, he had thought that it would have done her good to finally leave Aldburg. She had left on a crispy morning of October and he remembered him promising to visit her, together with his sister, in the following spring.

But Dawyn did not live to see another spring.

Her party had almost reached their final destination in a remote area of the Westfold, near the border with the Westemnet, when they had been attacked by a group of Dunlendings who had left none alive.

When he had been informed of what had happened, he had of course taken it on himself to inform Meregith. He had called her to his mother's freshly renovated solarium and held her in his arms for many long hours as her body shook with desperation, with rage. Her hair had since grown gray, her shoulders curved, and though she pretended everything to be fine, he knew nothing would ever be alright again for her. Not after all she had lost.

"Stay, Meregith", he called her.

She turned around and looked puzzled at him.

He nodded towards the chair on the other side of his desk: "You can take care of that bath later. Sit with me and embarrass me some more with one of those childhood tales of yours".

* * *

**Author's notes:** oh my, I'm so sorry for the awfully long delay at posting this chapter! Work is crazy these days and I can't really manage to write any faster than this at the moment.

I hope this chapter managed to add something to most of the characters introduced so far and that you've found it enjoyable. I'm not sure how long it will take to have some direct interaction between Éomer and our dear Princess, but I'm thinking some when within the next two chapters could be a good time (can't promise what the outcome will be though!). If you liked the chapter or have any suggestion, feel free (-obliged? :P ) to leave me a review: reading them always makes my day!

_AmandaBaker852:_ I had you waiting long but here we are!

_silverswath_: true, I think I could not have come up with a more different Lothíriel. I suppose I feel bad for both of them: for Lothíriel, for the way her life was turned upside down without her even having a say in it, and for Éomer who has to deal with her (although so far he hasn't dealt much we have to say...). One is young and knows little of life, the other is a season soldier who has seen too much. Clearly, they have very different takes on life, but that doesn't mean a sweet ending is not possible! :)

_Guest_: thank you! hope this chapter hasn't disappointed your expectations!

_Elo: _ahah, _your you are marrying a horselord, start packing_ had me laughing, but that's a great way to summarize it! I am myself a shy person and when I was younger, I found it very hard to get out of my comfort zone. I did it eventually - out of my own free will, and I still do it because I think it improves me as a person, but I believe it can be very traumatic if someone forces you (especially in such circumstances!). As for panicking, I know it can differ a lot from person to person. A dear friend of mine suffered from panic attacks for many years and I remember she once told me that the only thing scarier than the attack itself, was the idea of being exposed while having one. Hence Lothíriel's angst during the ride. Let us see what it will take for these two to change...

_TheLoner:_ I don't think anybody expects her to fall in love at this stage (although most of us would:) ). And while Éomer should be more patient with her and keep in better check his men, Lothíriel could also try a little harder to fit in and escape an otherwise miserable future. Unfortunately, there are times in life when it can be hard to see things for what they are, especially when our mind is clouded by strong emotions. Faults rarely lie on one side only and to find a solution one need's the help of both sides. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, even though it was long in the making!

_rossui:_ aaaw thank you so much (especially for overlooking the many mistakes I must have surely done)! It seems like you share Gárwine's opinion that Éomer should be spending some time with his wife instead of riding out, but he is a stubborn one and, to his defense, life in Rohan is not that easy. Also: having had his good share of women doesn't necessarily mean that he understands what a relationship needs in order to thrive. On her side, Lothíriel is totally self-absorbed. And even though that's understandable - especially given how young she is, that can't really justify some aspects of her behavior (or the way her behavior is perceived from outside). Hope you enjoyed this chapter and that the agony wasn't too unbearable! :)

_Catspector:_ yes, you summarized the situation perfectly! And so far, things aren't improving I'm afraid!

_ckara_: this chapter gave some insights on the background of a few of the characters involved. Not that we got to know them a bit better, let's see where things go!

_Guest_: I will try my best! And if I start losing realism, give me a shout! :)

_Guest_: thank you!

_tgo62: _long overdue update but here we are! :)

_EugeniaVictoria_: of course I'm planning to write more! Just at a very, very slow pace! :P Lothíriel does have strength but I don't think she knows. She is young, insecure and has had - by choice, a very sheltered life. This normally doesn't really help building one's confidence, but hey: we live to learn, right?

_alia00_: thank you! :)

_BlahBabe:_ now that's quite the compliment, thank you! Hope this chapter didn't disappoint!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_The Hornburg, April the 1__st__, 3018_

Éomer halted Firefoot in front of the stables and smiled as he saw his cousin already there, waiting for him: "Théodred, it's good to see you!", he greeted him as he dismounted.

"Likewise, brother", Théodred welcomed him, pulling him into a tight embrace and patting vigorously – maybe a bit too vigorously, his back.

"Bema, I had forgotten how harsh your greetings can be!", he joked bringing both his hand on his back.

Théodred laughed and gave his shoulder a crushing squeeze: "It's just been too long and I'm really glad you managed to make the time to pass by!".

Éomer shook his head: all those years, and yet he would never cease to be amazed by the way his cousin's positive attitude could be irreparably contagious! "So, how's life in the Westfold?", he inquired as he led him through a maze of narrow, crowded streets.

He opened his arms: "I believe you can already guess".

"All refugees?".

"No, no. We are not that stage, not yet at least. But ever since the last winter the number of orcs' raids and Dunlendings attacks has been steadily increasing and many don't feel safe living outside the city. More and more people are moving in and we are slowly running out of houses to accommodate everyone", Théodred explained as they left the buzzing streets behind them and started climbing the stairs leading towards the hall.

Éomer paused and took a moment to glimpse at the city below them: the streets were indeed packed like he had rarely seen them before and here and there, he spotted some makeshift accommodations: "We've had a few families moving into Aldburg, but nothing even remotely close to this", he admitted.

Théodred sighed and stared pensively at the overcrowded fortress: "It caught me off guard as well, but after the latest events I really can't blame them for seeking shelter here".

"Why, what happened?".

Théodred looked furtively around, as if he wanted to make sure nobody was eavesdropping on their conversation: "Last week we came across a whole pack of wargs, less than a day's distance from the fortress, Éomer", he told him in a whisper.

His head snapped towards him but Théodred raised a hand: "Not here", he told him and made sign to follow him. They entered the hall and walked upstairs and only after the door of his study had locked behind them, did he speak again: "Forgive the secrecy, but the walls have ears and I don't want panic to spread through the city, not until I can better assess the situation".

"You suspect there might be more?".

Théodred sat in his chair and rubbed his eyes: "Why shouldn't I? I mean, let's be realistic: what are the odds that we came across the only existing pack and exterminated it before it could attack any village?".

"Slim at best", he admitted. "Did you lose men?".

"Three. Plus five wounded - one of whom will probably have his leg amputated, and six killed horses. They were tough bastards, Éomer: the moment we saw them, we barely had the time to draw our swords that they were already on us".

Éomer sat in front of his cousin and poured himself a glass of water: over the past few years he had only had occasional encounters with wargs and never with more than two at a time. But that had been more than enough to confirm what his cousin had just said: they truly were _tough bastards_. Fast on their feet, with long fangs and sharp claws on their rear legs, they were not only hideous but also bloody intelligent. Facing one at short distance was never pleasant, but facing a whole pack was something completely unheard. "Did you inform the King?".

Théodred jumped up from his chair: "Of course I did! As soon as we returned to the city I sent a messenger to Edoras!".

"And? Has he returned yet?".

"He has: he returned three days later, informing me that while saddened by the loss of three good men, the King believes this to be an encounter that is not likely to happen again. As such, my request for additional men was denied and I was solicited to _make better use_ of the ones I already have!", Théodred cried, slamming his fists on the desk.

Éomer stared at him, unsure what shocked him more: to see his cousin like that, or that the King had chosen to ignore what had happened. "Those were your father's words?".

Théodred slumped back in his chair: "They came directly from him, if that's what you are asking. But whether they were his words, that I do not know anymore. When was the last time you saw him, Éomer?".

"January, for Yule's celebrations. But Éowyn mentions often in her letters that he seems to be getting…weaker".

"Yes: weaker in the body, weaker in the mind", Théodred agreed. "Every time I see him, I have this feeling, as if another piece of him, of the man he was, has left him. And what is left is a shell growing emptier by the day, a shell that has granted space to those who seek to take advantage of the situation".

"Grima?".

"Him for sure. But he isn't the only one who is trying to take advantage of a weak King in order to further his interests".

Éomer put down his glass: "Further one's interests is one thing. Neglecting the increased presence of orcs, Dunlendings – and now wargs as well, is another. Refusing to take measures against them won't simply weaken us, it might just destroy us".

"I know it all too well: those people out there", Théodred said raising an arm towards the window, "they are mostly farmers, Éomer: who do you think is caring for their fields? Who will seed them, crop them, harvest them when the time come? No one! We have enough food for everyone for the moment, but if next winter is going to be as harsh as this last one, I don't know what we will do…".

"Aldburg can support you".

"Aldburg cannot bear the weight of the Westfold and nor does Edoras", he cut him short. "We need to secure our land so that the people can return to their lives, but we lack the means – and the leadership, to do that".

As much he would have liked to tell his cousin that he was wrong and that he could count on his support, Éomer knew he was right. And besides, the situation he had just described was the exact embodiment of his worse fears: "We've had only a few abandoned farms so far, but I fear the Eastfold might be on a similar path", he admitted.

"I share your concerns".

"What are you planning to do now?".

"Next week I will ride to Edoras and speak personally with my father, in the hope I can convince him to do something. Aside from that, I've split my Éored and doubled the patrols, but it's a game I can't possibly win: this land is vast and we have too many undefended settlements. Our enemy knows it and will take advantage of our weaknesses, striking where we are the most vulnerable and spreading more and more fear in the people. We are at war, whether my father and his Council want to see it or not, and unless we start acting consequently, we are doomed to fail".

A heavy silence fell on the room: Éomer knew the situation to be dire, but to hear those words coming out of his cousin's mouth still felt like a punch in the stomach. And to know that he was powerless, that aside from going on fighting every day like he had done for the past ten years there was nothing more he could do to help him, filled him with frustration, anger, despair almost.

Théodred shook his head and forcibly pushed himself on his feet: "You know what, Éomer? The future might look uncertain, but I may have a much more solid plan for the shorter term".

He raised an eyebrow: "And what would that be?".

"Why, to storm the Putrid Hunter of course!".

Éomer stared at him for a moment before bursting out laughing: "The Putrid Hunter?".

"Worst tavern in town, brother!".

"And here I was, thinking we were discussing serious matters!".

Théodred pulled him up from his chair: "We were and we will continue tomorrow. But for now, let us just forget ourselves and celebrate like we used to do when we were younger", he told him with a stretched smile.

* * *

Lothíriel sighed and put her book down: _Tales of Menor_ might have been her favourite book but in the two months since she had arrived in Rohan she had read it over five times and quite honestly, she felt like she needed a break from it.

She stood and as she walked around her room, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror: her hairs were an unruly mess, her skin had an almost greyish undertone, there were deep circles around her eyes and the dress she was wearing fit her horribly. She had to admit she was everything but a pleasant sight; however, given that the only person she was going to meet was her maid and that by now the girl must have surely gotten used to her appearance, she simply shrugged her concerns off.

Grabbing a notebook and some charcoal, she moved towards the window and sat on her favourite spot on the sill, hoping she might get to see something worth drawing: only a few days earlier she had managed to sketch a lovely pair of blue tits and the week before, a magpie with a freshly captured worm in her beak. Maybe today she would finally manage to get a closer look at one of those red kites that flew often above the city, just too high for her to clearly distinguish the pattern on their elegantly shaped wings.

She opened the curtains and scanned the sky: grey, cloudy – as usual, and…totally empty!

Disappointed, she puffed her cheeks and moved her attention from the sky to the city below: there was an unusual buzz of activities and the square in front of the hall was packed with people hurrying up and down the street, loading and unloading long beams and other materials.

Sitting on a fence with an overly bored expression was Wulfstan: Runhild and him had hanged out together a couple of times over the past few weeks before her handmaid had brutally – at least according to her account, dumped him because _he is boring and chews louder than my horse_. Lothíriel chuckled: admittedly, he did not look particularly bright as he picked his nose and examined the content on his finger afterwards!

Looking more around, she spotted some more familiar faces: she did not know any of the people they belonged to, but from the solitary confinement of her room she had spent so many hours observing them as they run their daily errands, that she felt like they were no strangers anymore. Like the proud-looking lady with a nasty scar on her cheek who lived in the house at the other end of the square; or the plump woman who worked in the bakery and delivered bread to the hall every morning at dawn; or the old man with a crutch who was constantly looking for somebody to chat with. Just at that very moment, he managed to get a grip of a young guard and started flooding him with what looked like a torrent of words: the poor man tried to escape but failed miserably and rolled his eyes in an exasperated – and rather comical, way.

"My Lady?".

Lothíriel jumped down the sill and snapped around: "Valar, Runhild! I did not hear you coming in, how can you walk so silently?!".

She laughed: "I'm sorry. I did not mean to scare you, but you seemed totally captivated by whatever it is that you were looking at out there".

"Yes, old Cadda has just claimed his latest victim", she said nodding towards the courtyard where the old man was still clinging to the guard's arm and speaking without an end.

Runhild threw her arms in the air: "He's getting worse by the day! This morning I had to save myself by throwing someone else in his way!".

Lothíriel chuckled and observed her as she went around her room to tidy up those few things she found out of place: after an initial rocky start, things between them had gone unexpectedly well and she had to admit that Runhild had quickly become the closest thing to a friend she had ever had. There were days when she would spend hours just listening to the stories of her little adventures and escapades, all of which would all irremediably end up with her father scolding her for being _such a young reckless lady_. And to her, it was like listening to tales from another world: Runhild was only sixteen years old and yet pretty much independent. She had many friends, she had had her good share of romantic interests, she didn't need her father to approve everything she did and even the wage she received from the household, she was managing on her own. Sometimes she would waste it all on something silly and come to regret it, other times – most of them actually, she would wisely save it up. There was a part of her envied her for her freedom, for being able to do what she wanted, when she wanted, with whom she wanted. Another, found the thought almost scary. But in any case, she was thankful for her presence by her side for even in her darkest moments, she knew she could always count on her silent support and quiet discretion.

Finally satisfied by the state of her room, Runhild straightened up and turning towards her, she threw her a nervous look.

"Something wrong?", she asked her, already bracing for the worse - meaning something related to the damn housekeeper, who hadn't given her a moment of peace in the last two months.

"No, no my Lady. But you see, yesterday Lady Aldwyn has arrived in the city…".

Lothíriel arched an eyebrow: "Lady Aldwyn?".

"A noble Lady from Edoras. Her husband was one of the King's most trusted advisor until he passed away a couple of years back. He used to take care of relations with Gondor and as such both him and his family have spent much time there – in Minas Tirith, but also in Dol Amroth I believe. I met Lady Aldwyn earlier today and she has been adamant that she would very much like to meet you and she has invited you for tea at her home".

Lothíriel turned around and walked back towards the window: "You know I don't like going out, Runhild".

"Of course, my Lady. And you know I'd never insist, but I thought that maybe you could make an exception today. Lady Aldwyn's house is not far from here and I think you will like her… I am sure, actually!".

Lothíriel stared at her: one of the things she had come to appreciate the most about Runhild was that she had never tried to impose anything on her, she had never tried to force her into doing something she did not want to do and she had never even implied that because she spent all her time in her room, she had been neglecting her _duties_. She had always been very supportive and indulged her every wish and as such, she found herself wondering about this unexpected request that she meets this mysterious woman: "I don't know, Runhild…".

"Please, my Lady!", Runhild begged her taking one of her hands. "Look: if it turns out that I'm wrong and you don't like Lady Aldwyn, then I will come up with some excuse to get you back in your room as quickly as possible, I promise!".

Lothíriel hesitated: "Is it cold outside?", she asked lifting her eyes towards the clouded sky.

"Not at all, not even by Gondorian standards!".

"And it won't take long?".

"It will take as long as you wish, my Lady".

Lothíriel sighed: "Maybe taking some fresh air will do me good", she finally conceded, at which Runhild threw her arms around her neck before abruptly releasing her.

"I will arrange a bath for you, we have no time to waste!", she yelled as she already left the room and run down the corridor, leaving her staring at the open door and wondering what she had just gotten herself into.

* * *

Éomer chugged his beer and smacked the mug on the table.

Théodred hadn't been joking: the Putrid Hunter was definitely the worse tavern he had ever seen, so much that in comparison even the Mocking Reed in Edoras looked like a classy establishment. It wasn't even a tavern, but rather a hole of a place: in a room that could have hosted twenty or thirty people at best, they had managed to squeeze a long counter, three wooden tables and, at the moment, what he judged to be over fifty drunken – very drunken, Rohirrim. The air was stiff with the smell of dirty men, spilled ale and overly-cooked stew and the keeper was a grumpy old man who cursed every single guest who would approach him to get a refill.

Perfect. The place was just perfect!

"Just like in the old days!", Théodred yelled from the other side of the table.

Éomer laughed and leant back in his chair. Only: it wasn't a chair but a bench and if it hadn't been for the red-haired giant standing behind him, he would have likely ended up on the floor. The man pushed him back to his place and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an insult, but he was honestly too deep into his cups to even care. Instead, he dragged himself on his feet: "Time for another round!", he declared before turning around and making his way towards the counter – no small feat when you are at your ninth ale and can hardly stand on your feet.

Two narrowly avoided brawls later and with way too much ale soaking the front his tunic, he finally managed to get to the bar: "Two!", he mumbled to the keeper.

"And one for me!", a feminine voice added.

Éomer turned around and found himself staring into a lovely pair of blue eyes: "This is no place for a lady", he said shaking a finger in the air.

"And why would that be, milord?", the girl asked, leaning slightly towards him.

"Too many drunken men, could be dangerous", he whispered in her ear, taking the chance to peek into the bold neckline of her dress.

"Tis' a good thing the Prince and his cousin the Marshall are here then, don't you think?", she purred back, softly pressing her body against his'.

Éomer stared at her plump lips, his ales suddenly forgotten: "A good thing, yes…".

Behind them, a group of men started chanting the rhymes of one of those obscene songs you could only hear in such places: "See, this place ain't half that bad!", the girl laughed, pressing a little harder against him and placing a hand on his thigh.

With the excuse of making place for the other drinkers, Éomer wrapped an arm around her and pulled her even closer. He dove his nose into her blonde curls and breathed in her sweet scent: "What's your name, girl?".

"Lúfa, milord", she told him, her hand slowly moving upwards.

Éomer found himself almost holding his breath and the moment her hand finally came to rest on his crotch, he had to bit down a groan: he hadn't had a woman in…long, way too long, he thought as he felt his manhood hardening under her soft touch. He slid his arm down her back and cupped her firm buttock: "What would you say to a bit of fresh air, Lúfa?".

She didn't say anything but wrapped a leg around his waist instead: taking it as a _yes_, he lifted her from under her knees and careless of the people around them, he stumbled towards the nearest door and outside of the Putrid Hunter. He blindly turned into a dark, empty ally and pushed her against a wall, kissing hungrily her lips while his fingers tried desperately – and unsuccessfully, to unlace her corset.

Frustrated, he just gave up on it and pulled instead the neckline of her dress down, his lips kissing and biting their way down: Lúfa moaned something unintelligible and slid her arms between them, her hands making a quick job of his belt and finally relieving him of the constraint of his breeches.

He pushed his trousers further down and lifted her skirt, his whole body almost shaking in anticipation, but the moment he felt her hands locking around him, something suddenly clicked inside him: he gasped for air and almost tripped on his own pants as he hastily retreated from her.

Lúfa dropped on the ground and stared at him in confusion, her dress hanging under her breasts: "I-I'm sorry, Lúfa.", he stammered, pulling up his trousers and re-dressing himself as fast as he could while he hurried – run almost, away from her.

He rushed back towards the main street and once there, he leant with both his arms against a fence, trying in vain to stop the spinning of his head and the furious beating of his heart.

"Have you lost your mind?", someone growled behind him.

Éomer turned around and saw his cousin advancing towards him with a thunderous expression on his face - one he had not seen in a long time, not directed at him at least: "Nothing happened", he tried to justify himself, raising both his hands in front of him.

Théodred grabbed him by his tunic and pushed him against the fence: "You mean you haven't lain with her? Ah well, all is good then!", he yelled to his face, livid.

"I was drunk and did something stupid. I'm sorry, alright?", he apologized, clumsily trying to struggle out of his grip.

"That is no justification, Éomer! If being drunk was an excuse to cheat on a spouse, there would be no faithful marriage left in the whole Rohan!".

"I did not cheat, I told you nothing happened!", he cried, pushing him angrily back.

"You call _that_", his cousin said pointing towards the Putrid Hunter, "nothing?! It couldn't have been any more obvious even you had taken her directly _on_ that counter! Damn it man, you've been married for just a couple of months and…".

"And I haven't even seen my wife in just about the same time, Théodred!", he spat out. "I could bed every single woman across this town, I could do it right in front of her eyes and she wouldn't give a damn! So you know what, maybe I should just do that, I should go back in there and ask Lúfa to come with me to Aldburg and make her my mis…".

That did it: he didn't even have the time to finish the sentence, that his cousin's fist collided with his jaw, sending him flying over the fence and into the mud on the other side.

For a moment everything went blank but when he finally came back to his senses, all Éomer could do was staying right there where he was, too stunned by what had just happened and too ashamed by his actions and his words to stand up and face his cousin.

Seeing he had no intention whatsoever to get back on his feet, Théodred walked around the fence and came sitting in the mud next to him: "Everybody knows your marriage is less than idyllic, Éomer".

"Everybody?", he asked staring at the stars above them.

"Rumors spread fast, brother".

"Oh, that is…reassuring".

"I know. But Éomer: no matter how things stand between the two of you, that is no excuse to behave that way. That was just…disrespectful. And hurtful, because as I said: rumors spread fast. Rest assured that one day she will find out about what happened here tonight and trust me, there isn't a single woman in the whole Middle Earth who wouldn't feel humiliated by a husband who acts that way".

Éomer sighed: "You are right, of course you are. I don't know what took me…it's just that everything seems always so close to completely fall apart, _we_ seem always so close to completely fall apart. I've never been unfaithful to her, Théodred: I haven't been with a woman since I signed our marriage agreement, but after our earlier discussion, after all the worries, after all the ale, to just feel the touch of a woman was…".

"Good, I know", he finished the sentence for him. "All the more reasons to try fix things with your wife!", he teased him.

"Easier said than done I'm afraid", he said as he slowly straightened up and massaged his aching jaw.

"Come, it can't be that difficult either. Plus, if the rumors have it right, I heard the Princess is quite…pleasant to the eyes, shall we say?", Théodred told him with his most innocent-looking face.

Éomer smiled and shook his head: "She's not pleasant to the eyes: she is bloody gorgeous! At least as far as I can remember, that is…".

"Have you really not seen her for so long?".

"Since we arrived in Aldburg", he confirmed. "She spends her time locked in her room and never leaves it, not even when I'm not there. People have taken to call her _the ghost_, you know?".

"The ghost?".

"Yes, because she often spends hours sitting by the window of her room, half hidden behind a curtain. That's all they – and I, have seen of her in these past two months. Meregith occasionally passes by her room, but otherwise the only one dealing directly with her is her maid, Runhild".

"Frumgar's daughter?".

"Her".

"And what does she say?".

"Not much, actually. After we arrived in Aldburg I decided to reassign her back to her previous job in the stables. I did it because I thought it would have been better for her but I swear: the day I told her, she gave me a look like she wanted to strangle me and then explained me that she wished very much indeed to keep working with my wife".

"They're getting along then?".

"Apparently yes".

Théodred scratched his chin: "Strange. As far as I've heard your wife is quite haughty, isn't she?".

"More than you know".

"Even more so: I've only met Runhild a couple of times but she didn't really struck me as the type of girl who would enjoy the company of prissy Princess".

"I know! She went from breaking noses in the stables to spending her days in the company of a woman who couldn't have possibly been more different from her!".

"Breaking noses in the stables?".

"Yes: the stable boys gave her a hard time during her training there and once one of them publicly belittled her and then tried to take credit for some work she had done. Long story short: the day after she waited for him outside of his house, she jumped on him and punched him straight on his nose. I know I shouldn't find it funny, but trust me: the boy was an idiot and seeing him reduced to a sobbing, bloody mess by a girl who was half his size, has been rather entertaining!".

Théodred laughed: "I'll remember to be extra nice to her! But what about you, Éomer?".

"Me?".

"Yes, you. What do you think of your wife – apart that she's snobby, that is?".

Éomer considered carefully his question: he knew so little of her that it was hard to say. However, there was one thing he knew for sure: "I find her unsettling. Back in Minas Tirith, whenever we got to spend some time together I couldn't help but feeling totally out of place by her side. Truth is we couldn't be any more different, Théodred: she is so elegant, so sophisticated, so… so different from me".

Théodred frowned: "You may not be a Gondorian buster, but you're no rube either Éomer".

"I know", he simply said, finding it hard to explain the way a simple glance from his wife could make him feel.

"It must be hard for her too, you know: the change from Gondor to Rohan isn't exactly a subtle one".

"I know but she hasn't made it easier for herself either, what with the way she behaves!".

"She is eighteen, Éomer. Do you remember your eighteen year-old self?".

He snorted: "I have no idea what you are talking about, I was such a good lad!", he lied, struggling - and failing, to keep a straight face.

"I have more than a few white hairs that would object to that. However", Théodred said as he slowly got on his feet and stretched an arm towards him to help him up, "your juvenile's stupidity is not what is up for debate. Just promise me one thing, Éomer: that you won't _ever_ again behave like you did earlier today and that as soon as you get back to Aldburg, you will try to get to your wife out of her room and you will try to get to know her better".

"Aye, I will do that", he promised, knowing all too well that he owned her – and himself, to try at least to make their relationship work.

* * *

Sitting by an elegant dark-wooden table while she waited for her tea, Lothíriel looked around and realized that Lady Aldwyn's house was nothing like she had expected.

While very Rohirric in its external appearance, with its wooden walls and sloping roof, the interior had proved to be an unexpected – and very much pleasant, surprise: it was furnished with a strange combination of different styles, yet they all seemed to fit together beautifully, creating an ambient that was not only elegant, but also very unique.

Rohan stood of course in the middle of the living room, embodied by a round table in what she judged to be a polished walnut wood, with matching chairs and a golden chandelier hanging low above it. Against the walls stood instead some more familiar – in terms of style at least, furniture; her eye was especially caught by a beautiful glass cabinet displaying an array of very different and exotic-looking objects, which managed to bring color and brightness to a room that would have otherwise felt rather dark. Other furniture, such as the drawer and the shelfs hanging on either side of the window, looked so unlike anything she had ever seen that she guessed they must have come from very, very far away.

Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps and clinking porcelains, Lothíriel turned towards the door and observed Lady Aldwyn as she entered the room: Runhild had told her that she was almost seventy years-old, yet she found it hard to believe. Her silver hair was the only thing that betrayed her age for apart from that she looked fifty at best – both in the body and in the stance.

"Here's some black tea, and here", she said placing two different teapots in front of her, "is an infusion of hibiscus and rose hips".

Lothíriel stared into the dark red tisane: "Hibiscus?", she asked almost incredulous.

"Difficult to find, I know. Even more so here in Rohan. But I still have a few contacts in Minas Tirith and from time to time, I manage to purchase some. So", she asked with a raised eyebrow, "I suppose you'll go for this one?".

"Yes, please: I've never had it with rose hips, but I'll gladly try it".

Lady Aldwyn passed her a steaming cup but then, as if suddenly remembering something, she put it down: "Ah, I don't know where I have the head these days, I almost forgot!", she said striding out of the room. She came back a few moments later, holding a leather wrapped object: "A welcome gift for you, my Lady".

Lothíriel looked at the package and didn't need a mirror to know she must have been reddening all the way to the tip of her ears.

Lady Aldwyn tilted her head on one side: "A Princess of Gondor getting embarrassed by a simple gift? Come, my dear: no reason to blush, just open it and see if you like it".

As always, stating that there was nothing to be embarrassed of only managed to make the situation even worse and Lothíriel felt rather confident that by now, her cheeks must have reached a shade fairly close to the one of the infusion in her cup: "Thank you", she mumbled as she took the package from Lady Aldwyn's hands and…almost let it drop on the table! "Oh, I'm sorry! I wasn't expecting it to be so heavy", she apologized with a nervous smile, wondering what could be weighting so much. This time more carefully, she lowered the parcel on the table and as the gift was finally unwrapped, she looked puzzled at it: "What is this?", she asked, lifting what looked like the most amazing stone she had ever seen.

"A desert rose from Harad", Lady Aldwyn explained.

"A desert rose?", she echoed her, flipping the stone in her hands.

"Yes. The merchant who sold it to me gave me a whole story about some sort of legend involving – needless to say, a Princess and her beloved who got lost in the desert while riding to marry her. According to him, the poor man not only died, but his soul never found peace and has since wandered through the desert, looking for a way back to his betrothed. And since no flower blooms in the desert, he took to growing roses out of the only available thing: sand, of course. So, this that you are holding", she said pointing towards the rose, "would be a token of his undying love for her". She paused for a moment and then waved a hand in front of her: "All a bunch of rubbish, naturally! Desert roses, albeit rare, are nothing but the result of natural phenomena which took place long before we ever walked this earth!".

Lothíriel found herself smiling first, laughing then: "If I have to be frank, to know that this is something nature created and that no men were involved in its crafting, actually makes it all the more beautiful", she agreed brushing her fingers on the edge of the blooms and marveling at the creation of such splendid object.

"Glad we see it the same way: I'd have hated to see that you were one to fall for such silly, soppy stories!".

With great care, Lothíriel placed the rose back in its skin: "Thank you, Lady Aldwyn. I think this will fit beautifully in my room".

"Excellent. And now tell me, how are you settling in here in Aldburg?".

"Good", Lothíriel lied: Lady Aldwyn seemed a nice lady – just like Runhild had said, and she saw no reason to tell her she despised her country.

"I see. You and Éomer are getting along, then?", she inquired her and judging from the way she was looking at her, Lothíriel had the distinct feeling the woman knew more than she was leaving intended.

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair: "You seem to already know the answer to that question".

"I know what people say, of course. But people say a lot of things, many of which are not necessarily true. For example, they depicted you like an obnoxious young lady and _that,_ is a claim I have already found to be utterly false".

Lothíriel nodded and somehow, the words just slipped out of her mouth: "I hate Rohan and I haven't seen my husband in over two months".

Lady Aldwyn stared at her with wide eyes before snapping up from her chair and disappearing once again in the next room. When she came back, she was holding a bottle of wine and two goblets: "My dear, you need a glass of wine way more than you need a cup of tea", she said pushing her infusion away and pouring her a full glass.

Lothíriel hesitated: there was more wine in there than she had drunk in her whole life and maybe – just maybe, drinking it was not a wise idea!

"It's one of the best Amrothian reds, you will like it", Lady Aldwyn encouraged her.

Deeming it rude to refuse, Lothíriel brought the glass to her mouth and only barely wet her lips with the wine: she was no expert but she thought it tasted rather intense and fruity and before she even knew it, she found herself sipping on it.

"I see you have good taste", Lady Aldwyn noticed with a smile. "And now tell me: why would you ever hate Rohan?".

"I did not want to marry and I did not want to move here", she confessed.

Lady Aldwyn frowned: "Forgive me for being so blunt, but this is hardly a reason to hate a country. Besides, that you would keep complaining about not wanting to marry after you've already been married for several weeks, is unbecoming of the smart woman that I believe you are. I've always rejected the idea of combined weddings and I understand that you did not want any of this", she said waving the goblet in front of her, "but it happened and you need to deal with it".

Lothíriel bit her cheeks strong enough that it hurt her and though there was a part of her that wanted to leave immediately that house and get back to her room as fast as possible, another found it an immense relief to finally speak so openly about her struggles: "The people. I don't like the people", she said, and the moment the words left her mouth she realized how silly they sounded.

"The people? All of them?".

"Yes… no!", she corrected herself. "I do like Runhild, she has been very kind to me. But everybody else has been so cold and unwelcoming, so…".

"Judgmental?".

"Yes!", she cried, finding the adjective just perfect to describe the way people had been treating her.

"And pray tell: do you believe things would be different in Gondor? Were you a Rohirrim bride moving to Minas Tirith to marry your Gondorian husband, would you be welcomed with open arms?".

Lothíriel didn't even need to think about it for Minas Tirith was a nest of vipers and foreigners – and not only them, had always been looked down upon: "No", she admitted.

"Yet there are many worthy Gondorians out there: I for one know more than a few of them and I'm sure that is the same for Runhild, am I not right?".

She nodded: Runhild had indeed some very fond memories of her time in Minas Tirith and had often expressed the wish to visit the White City again.

"You see, people are often quick to judge, especially when they see something…new, unexpected, exotic if you wish. And Rohirrim have always been weary of strangers coming from other lands. But that doesn't mean that they hate you, rather that you have to find your way here".

"Oh, I'm fairly sure some of them actually hate me".

"Like who?".

"Meregith for one".

Lady Aldwyn grinned and leant towards her: "I don't like her either!", she whispered in her ear. Then, seeing the shocked expression on her face, she laughed: "Why do you think I invited you here and did not propose to meet in the hall instead? Me and Meregith… we'd rather not stay under the same roof".

This time, Lothíriel gulped down half of her glass at once: "Why? What happened?".

"Ah, let me just say that the two of us did not always see eye to eye. But don't get me wrong: she's a good woman, she's been like a mother to Éomer and Éowyn and she loves them very much. The problem is that she has always had a way of pushing people into what _she_ believes is the best for them, and not necessarily what _they_ believe is the best for themselves".

Lothíriel found her explanation rather confusing but guessing Lady Aldwyn did not wish to tattle any further, she deemed it wiser not to pry.

"And now for the second of your problems: you haven't seen your husband in weeks?", she asked as she refilled both their glasses.

"Since we arrived from Minas Tirith", she confirmed. "Do you know him well?", she then asked, feeling her tongue considerably loosened.

"I'd say so, yes. You see: Éomer and his sister were raised in Edoras and…".

"We've been married for two months and I didn't even know he had a sister", Lothíriel interrupted her: "Isn't that ridiculous?".

"I'm afraid it is, yes. But maybe I can fill some gaps: is there something you wish to know about him?".

Though her first instinct was to say that no, she did not care about him and did not wish to know anything about him, Lothíriel paused: "I don't understand him", she finally said. "We married as strangers, he has never shown any interest in getting to know me better and with me he has always been so…so cold, so detached. Until we arrived here, I don't even think I ever saw him smiling. But then, during these pasts few weeks I've often observed him from my window and he hardly seems like the same man".

"Meaning a less brooding and a more smiling one?".

"More or less, yes", she said, thinking of all the times she had seen him walking to – or from the hall and how he always seemed to have a good word and a smile for everyone.

Lady Aldwyn stood up and pensively walked around: "Éomer is a good man, one of the best I've ever known, actually. Do you know what happened to his parents?".

She shook her head: "No, of course not".

"His father was slain by orcs in the Emyn Muil when he was eleven, or maybe twelve years old. And his mother, she succumbed to her grief and died within a few months, leaving him and his sister alone".

Lothíriel stared at Lady Aldwyn, her mouth gaping: to lose a parent was already something tragic, something that no child should ever experience. But to lose two, and in that way! "How could she?".

"How could she lose the will the live despite two children who depended on her?".

"Yes, just the idea of my father giving up on me and my brothers after my mother passed away is…inconceivable!".

"I know, but it is not for us to judge: after so many years I believe that both Éomer and his sister have finally come to terms with it and if they have, so should we".

"I suppose you are right", she agreed, staring blankly into her glass.

"Now, now: I did not mean to upset you, my dear. All I wanted was for you to understand that the sullen man you've married, has come a long way. You see, after the death of their parents, the King rode personally to Aldburg and took both Éomer and his sister to Edoras, where he raised them as if they were his own. I remember the Éomer of those days: an angry, surly, lonely boy who would never leave his sister's side. And I remember seeing him growing past the plight of his childhood and into the man he is today. It takes strength to move past such losses and turn into the type of man people look up at for guidance and hope. And yet this is precisely what he has become, though sometimes I feel he doesn't even fully realize it himself. I don't know why he has been so cold with you Lothíriel, but I can assure you there is more to the man than you have seen so far. Just like I see now that there is more to you than what the rumors say", Lady Aldwyn told her, holding gently her hand.

Lothíriel gave her a watery smile: "You know, when Runhild told me about your invitation I didn't even want to come here. Now, I'm glad I let her convince me".

"So am I. I'm just sorry I won't be able to stay long".

"You will be soon leaving?".

"Tomorrow, I'm afraid. But I'm planning to come back soon and besides, I hope that sooner rather than later you will grace Edoras with your presence!".

Lothíriel nodded: "Maybe I will, who knows".

"Splendid! And Lothíriel, one last piece of advice", she said taking her by her shoulders: "Stand for yourself, girl: don't hide in that room of yours, don't let what the people say affect you and if _somebody_ fights you, then you fight back!".

* * *

**Author's notes:** oh my, this chapter was a hard one to write! I knew the message I wanted to get through, but couldn't make up my mind as to how I should have delivered it and which POV was best to use. I even considered Runhild and wrote quite a lot from her POV, but ultimately changed my mind. I know there are some pending questions as to why Runhild decided to stay with Lothíriel, but I promise things will become clearer as the story proceeds.

As for Éomer and Lothíriel, I was glad to read reviews taking different sides after the last chapter because I honestly think they are both to be understood and biased at the same time for their situation. Question is whether they have come to finally realize it or whether they will instead keep doing the same mistakes over and over again.

_Wonderye_: Runhild came to her rescue, it seems! As mentioned above, more about her motives will be explained as the story progresses, but hopefully it did not come as a disappointment that Lothíriel has not been forced – _yet?_, to interact with other people. She did get to meet Lady Aldwyn though: let us see whether she has managed to knock some sense into her!

_AmandaBaker852_: as mentioned in the first chapter, Lothíriel was simply convinced that with three older brothers to secure the succession, she would have been left free of doing whatever she wanted. Whether this was simply an unwarranted belief on her side and why would she be so blind about it, remains to be seen! :)

_WillowMist14_: would love to know what you think of this update then!

_Readergirl4985_: I agree 100% on the lack of communication and on the fact that while both Éomer and Lothíriel have much to complain about, they also share their faults and are ultimately responsible for their own miserable situation. But hey: at least your hopes about Runhild have not been disregarded and the girl has indeed helped our Princess quite a lot!

_BlahBabe_: they would have totally deserved it!

_rossui_: I don't want to spoil anything, but I chose _angst_ as a genre for a reason I'm afraid! :)

_Catspector_: unfortunately even with her maid by her side, she has been more isolated - and miserable, than ever. As for the marriage, I think it would become clearer to us - and them as well, if they just started talking…question is _when_ and _if_ will they ever do it!

_EugeniaVictoria:_ well I hadn't thought about it, but I guess you have a point about the feminist touch of her venting! :) Also, I can't stress enough how great it is to read that you found all the characters relatable in their choices and their struggles: that was exactly what I had hoped for and to see that I managed to convey the message and that you enjoyed the chapter, makes me _really_ happy! Also: thank you for your trust, hope the story will live up to your expectations!

_Guest_: sorry for keeping you waiting for this update!

_LenoreFan_: as a cat person, it broke my heart to write it! I think Lothíriel's reaction is understandable, though is making her life way more miserable. Also, seen from the outside much of her behavior could simply pass as arrogant and as such, it is not a surprise that the only person she seems to be getting along with is her maid, the only one who has seen her at her worse and maybe understands a little better what she is really going through. As usual, communicating and speaking to one another could help things and hopefully this chapter taught them just that! I don't think Éomer is a jerk though he may act like one sometimes (and so does Lothíriel, to be fair). But things are not easy for him either and I can see him (though I don't justify him) trying to avoid another _problem_ rather than facing it, because he himself is struggling on his own. I know this chapter doesn't really help the whole _jerk _issue, but hopefully it shed some light on the fact that he himself feels at loss in this marriage and even though he is much older and more experienced, he simply feels insecure being with someone like Lothíriel. I hope despite all you still enjoyed this chapter! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Aldburg, April the 10__th__, 3018_

Accepting the fact he wasn't going to get any decent sleep that night, Éomer pushed the blanket away and stood up with a grunt.

When he was younger, he used to be able to sleep anywhere and under any circumstance: whether it was in the freezing snow or under a pounding rain, whether he had just fought a bloody fight or drunk an entire barrel of ale, as soon as his head had rested on the pillow – or on the hard ground for the matter, he would fall asleep. But things had slowly changed over the course of the past year: there was always something nagging on his mind and regardless of how late it was or how tired he felt, he could not avoid spending most of his nights tossing from one side of his bed to the other. And even when he did manage to get some sleep, it was never a restful one: sometimes he would get up in the morning feeling more tired than the evening before, others he would awake in the middle of the night with only fragmented memories of the nightmare that had startled him awake in the first place.

"You're getting old", he told himself as he left his room and made his way through Aldburg's empty corridors: it was going to be at least a couple of hours before the hall would awake, which meant he had some precious time to work in peace on that huge amount of paperwork he had long been neglecting – and accumulating, on his desk.

Keen on getting a bit fresh air before locking himself in his study for the rest of the morning, he passed by the kitchens to grab a couple of apples and then headed outside: "Good morning, Eofor", he greeted the guard at the door.

"Morning Éomer. Up earlier than usual?".

He nodded and sat on the stairs to enjoy his breakfast. He had but given his apple a couple of bites, when he noticed that his wife too was awake and sitting by her favourite spot by the window, her back leaning against the wall. And while it was surely not unusual for her to be there, he was surprised to see her up so early in the day.

"She's often up at night", Eofor explained, guessing his thoughts.

"Is she?".

"Yes, I guess she can't sleep. Sometimes she takes a candle with her - to read I suppose, others she falls asleep. I think so, at least: no one can possibly keep so still for so long".

Éomer tossed aside the core of his apple and scratched his beard: "I suppose that explains why she sleeps at day".

"Probably, though she hasn't done it much during this past week".

"Why not?", he asked, well aware of how ridiculous it was that a young guard knew more about his wife's sleep regime than himself.

"Lady Aldwyn was here and they spent some time together. Lady Lothíriel even went to the stables to bid her farewell when she left and after that, she visited regularly her mare", Eofor explained before adding with a grin: "I think Runhild has been trying to convince her to go out riding but has been unsuccessful as of yet!".

Éomer stared at his wife's profile and though it was hard to say from that distance, something in her posture told him that Eofor was right and that she was indeed sleeping. And in seeing her that way, he couldn't help but feeling a rush of sympathy for her.

Sympathy, and sadness as well.

She had her flaws to be sure, but Théodred was right that moving from Gondor to Rohan must have been a drastic change for her. And the circumstances of their marriage hadn't helped either: had they been granted the chance of a normal courtship, things might have been easier. But their marriage contract had been signed only shortly before the winter and with the cold season upon them and troubles brewing everywhere in Rohan, there had been no chance for him to travel to Dol Amroth to meet her in person.

That they were to marry as complete strangers had been simply nerve-wracking for him and he had spent many nights staring at the ceiling of his room, trying to picture the woman he would have spent the rest of his life with, trying to imagine her looks but most importantly, what type of person she would have been like.

He was biased, he knew that much.

Gondorians didn't have much of a reputation among Rohirrim and his personal experience with them had been nothing short of disastrous. Though many years had passed, he still remembered clearly the first time he had visited Minas Tirith: his mother had died since only a few months when the King had entrusted Théodred to meet with the Steward of Gondor to discuss the possibility of trading some of their steeds. He had been but an angry boy at the time and though everyone had agreed that it was a terrible idea, his cousin had insisted to bring him along. Ah, if he had come to regret it! It had taken him less than a day to get already into trouble: the son of some lofty noble had had the not so brilliant idea of making a catty remark about him and his mount and before he even knew it, he had tackled him to the ground, fists and whatever else flying in the air. Théodred had been livid: he had ordered him to apologize and faced with his stubborn refusal, he had him locked in his room for the rest of their stay in Gondor. It wasn't until several years later that he had returned to the White City, without his cousin this time but under otherwise fairly similar circumstances. Only this time being a grown man he had managed to keep his fists clear of any noble's face. However, that did not mean things had gone smoothly and indeed, he had spent the whole length of his stay counting the days –the hours even, separating him from his return home.

He didn't know why, but it seemed to him that Gondorians took great pride in making anyone - and newcomers especially, uncomfortable and that no matter how hard one could try to fit into their strict and endless vademecum of rules, failing would still be the only inevitable outcome: years of imposed and very much hated study of the proper etiquette, and yet the moment he set foot in Minas Tirith he couldn't help but feeling again like that scruffy young boy who had gotten into a fight over some stupid comment!

That was what had worried him the most about marrying a Gondorian princess and in the end, unable to just sit and wait until their wedding to find out who _Lothíriel _was, he had done the only thing in his power: he had locked himself in his study and after dozens of aborted attempts and much crumpled paper, he had come up with a somewhat decent letter for her. He had given it to his fastest messenger and waited impatiently for his bride's reply, only to be sorely disappointed: the man had returned less than three weeks later, bringing him back his own letter together with a short apology from Imrahil explaining that correspondence between betrotheds was deemed improper in Gondor.

Éomer chuckled as he recalled how, after reading the note, he had left his study and stormed into the training grounds to tear to bits one of the poor decoys under the astonished and somewhat scared eyes of the new recruits.

The following months had been a kind of slow torture and he could only imagine that if they had been hard for him, then they must have been even harder for his wife, who was going to leave her family and friends behind to relocate to a country she knew probably nothing of. To his defence, he had intended to make things as easy and smooth as possible for her: he had had many of Aldburg's rooms renovated, he had picked her the best maid he could have possibly thought of and because one of the few things Imrahil had told him about her was that she enjoyed reading, he had retrieved his mother's book collection from the cellars in the hope she might have found it interesting. He had even made a mental list of all the things he wanted to ask her once they would finally meet!

Éomer run a hand through his hair and almost laughed at his own ridiculousness and lack of confidence in a field in which many considered him an expert. But the truth was that a roll in the hay with a tavern girl hardly counted as a valid experience when you have to figure out how to approach a wife you know nothing of!

His eyes still fixed on her, he rose to his feet: "Do me a favour, Eofor: when Runhild arrives, tell her that I wish to speak to my wife and that I'll be waiting for her in the solar", he instructed the guard before getting back inside the hall.

He passed by his study to grab some parchments and then headed upstairs. The door to the solar opened with a light a squeak and as he stepped in, he couldn't help but smiling: the room had been his mother's favourite and to him, it was the lasting foreground of many of his fondest childhood memories. There was one in particular that always kept coming back to him and it was the one of that winter when he had caught chickenpox: the healer had been adamant that his parents had to keep him separated from his sister – and other children in general, if they wanted to avoid the risk of an epidemy spreading across the whole town. Following his instructions had been easy at first: a high fever had forced him to bed and he had felt too weak to challenge his parents' orders. As his temperature went down and his strength came back however, he had become impatient to return to his friends and to his beloved pony and after two miserably failed attempts to sneak outside, his mother had eventually come to the conclusion that the only way to keep him inside, was to have one of them constantly watching over him. So they spent the following two weeks together in the solar, just the two of them: they would sleep on the sofa or on cots provided by his father - so that he could pretend he was a rider on some dangerous mission, they would often spar with wooden swords and every morning his father would walk his pony in the courtyard in front of the hall, so that he could see with his own eyes that they were taking good care of him in his absence.

Éomer sighed and stared at the ceiling of the room, with its green sky and golden stars. Maybe it was just the impression of a child that things used to be easier back then, but of one thing he was sure: they were happier.

Everything had changed the day his father's body was brought back to Aldburg: gone were the happy days, gone were the joyful moments they had shared in that room as a family and in a matter of only a few short months, he had found himself sitting in the saddle in front of his uncle, the profile of the city that had been his home for the first part of his life slowly fading away behind them and with it, his careless childhood.

After returning to Aldburg several years later, it had taken him a long time to bring himself to step back into his mother's solar. And when he had eventually found the courage to do so, he had been disheartened at finding it in a state of total abandon, with a thick layer of dust covering the furniture and its once brilliant colours long faded away. Himself unsure what to do, for a long time he had done nothing; until last autumn, when the marriage contract had finally landed on his desk and he had ordered the room to be brought back to its original splendour.

Éomer lit a couple of candles and paced around the room: he had thought his wife might have liked the place; more than that, a part of him had hoped in more happy family moments, more joyful memories to grace a place that had meant so much to him and his family.

Sadly, things with Lothíriel hadn't gone as he had hoped - and he was partially to blame for it, but surely it wasn't too late to improve upon their mistakes and clean up the mess they had created for themselves, Éomer thought to himself as he took a seat and spread the parchments in front of him.

_Paperwork, oh joy!_

He cracked his fingers and braced himself for a long and tedious morning but truth to be told, by the time the sun had risen he was surprised to notice he was progressing at un unusual good pace. He nodded in approval and was so taken by congratulating himself for the job well done, that he didn't hear the approaching steps and when someone suddenly knocked on the door, he almost fell from his chair, completely caught off guard.

"Come in", he called.

Dressed in a simple grey gown but with her hair arranged in a complicated intertwine of braids and silver pins, his wife entered the room and after an impeccable curtsy, she greeted him politely: "Good morning, my Lord".

Éomer stared at her and the first thing that came to his mind was that she looked…different. The weeks she had spent locked in her room seemed to have taken a toll on her: her skin was paler than he remembered – waxy almost, and she seemed to have dropped more than a few pounds.

What hadn't changed though, was the aloofness of her stance and the coolness of her gaze: she had but entered the room, and he already felt at loss as to what to say!

* * *

The room was uncomfortably silent as Lothíriel waited for Éomer to answer her greeting. He just stood there, in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, looking at her as if she was some kind of strange creature, the likes of which he had never seen before.

Valar, what was wrong with the man?!

Feeling unease at holding his gaze, Lothíriel looked around instead: the room was by far the brightest of the whole building and also, she thought, the most beautiful one. With three large windows that allowed light to flood in and furbished in an unusual light wood, the place felt warm and very welcoming.

"My Lady", he finally spoke, giving her the stiffest bow she had ever seen: "Thank you for making the time to join me".

Lothíriel arched an eyebrow, unsure whether he was being sarcastic: since her arrival in Aldburg her days had been an endless agony of empty hours that she would spend dragging herself from bed to chair, from chair to sill, from sill to bed, and over again. Sometimes she would read a book, sometimes she would sketch something, sometimes she would drift on and off sleep for most of the day, only to find herself staring at the ceiling of her room for the whole night, waiting impatiently for the sun to rise and for another tedious day to start. If there was one thing she was not short of, that was time! "Runhild said you wished to see me", she finally told him, already bracing for the worse.

Éomer circled around the table and there was something in the way he moved, in the way he cleared his voice and glanced towards her, that had her wondering whether he was…nervous?!

"I was told you like reading".

Lothíriel blinked, taken aback: "I…yes, I do like reading, my Lord".

"There are some books here", he said waving a hand towards the other side of the room.

Lothíriel stared at the bookcase he was pointing at, her eyes shifting from the books to her husband and then back to the books: "Is this why you summoned me here?", she couldn't help but asking.

Éomer seemed just as taken back: "Why, yes: I thought you might have liked to have a place for yourself. Apart from your bedroom, that is. Do you like it here?".

Lothíriel gave the solar a better look and found herself staring at that unusual, sparkling ceiling: "Why the green sky?", she asked in a voice that, she realized, sounded harsher than she had intended to.

"It was my mother's idea", he snapped.

"It is nice", she hurried to say: she may have not liked the man, but the story of his family – and his mother especially, had touched her deeply and belittling something she had done had really not been her intention. Indeed, she quite liked that green vault above them! "This whole room is actually very beautiful, my Lord", she admitted and judging by Éomer's reaction, it was the right thing to say.

"I'm glad you like it. This place…it has been neglected for too long and it was high time it found its new mistress", he told her and to her disbelief, there was a smile on his lips. Tiny, but a smile nonetheless.

Lothíriel lowered her eyes, feeling somewhat awkward in that unexpected turn of events: "Thank you, my Lord", she simply told him, unable to better express her gratitude.

Éomer hesitated for a moment, then started to collect the papers scattered on the table: "Very well, I shall return to my study and leave you to your solar then", he declared and as she observed him piling all his documents together, Lothíriel couldn't help but thinking about what Lady Aldwyn had told her.

_There is more to the man than you have seen so far_.

Could it be that she was right? Could it be that he truly was a better person than his behavior in the past months had left intended? Lady Aldwyn seemed to be sure about it and though Runhild carefully avoided the topic, she knew she thought just as much. Only a month earlier she wouldn't have cared about their opinion but now, after more than eight weeks of total isolation, she wasn't sure she could go on like that any longer. At the same time, there were so many things she could not understand of her husband…

If he really was the _honorable man_ everybody spoke of, then why had he accepted to marry her that way? What did he want of her? If he was interested in her as a wife, he would have claimed his rights long ago. But he hadn't – for which she was immensely glad. And if he didn't care and wanted to have as little to do with her as possible, then why bothering at all? Why showing her that room? Why caring enough to choose her a handmaid she would get along with, one who would understand the hurdle of relocating to a foreign country, while at the same time allowing his housekeeper to endlessly torment her without saying a word? What was the sense of it? Lothíriel clenched her fists at the mere thought of it: during the past two months Meregith had been constantly at her heels and a day rarely passed by without the woman finding an excuse to pass by her room to remark in a thousand different ways how lacking she was as a wife and as a woman in general.

And even though her insults had longed ceased to shock her, even though she pretended she did not care about her words, she hated to admit they were still as hurtful as ever.

Tired of her continuous provocations, the evening before she had finally followed Lady Aldwyn's advise to _stand up for herself_ and as a result, a rather heated discussion had ensued. In all honesty, she had thought that was the reason why her husband had summoned her there first thing in the morning. But once again, the man had proved her wrong and so maybe, Lothíriel thought, there was really a chance her friends were right about him after all. And even if they weren't, what did she have to lose?

"You can stay, if you wish", she suddenly told him.

Éomer froze and turned towards her, his surprise quickly turning into an unexpectedly warm smile: "I'd be glad to, my Lady. In fact, even a tedious task such as this", he said lifting the parchments in front of him, "becomes more bearable in such beautiful place".

Lothíriel remained silent: she thought about asking him what he was working on but quite honestly, she felt like she had exhausted all her bravado when she had asked him to stay and had none left to start an actual conversation. So instead, she moved towards the bookshelves and started examining their contents: she scrolled through the titles and though she came across a few volumes that she had already read and some that she was not interested in, she also found many she thought she might have liked.

Standing on her toes, she tried to grab a book from the highest shelf but only barely managed to touch it.

Behind her, Éomer stood up: "Here, let me help you".

As he passed her the book, Lothíriel gave him a nervous smile: "My aunt told me about this saga. It used to be very popular when she was young, but I never managed to find a copy to read it myself".

Éomer tilted his head on one side: "_Vultures of Silver_...rings a bell. Maybe my mother read it, who knows".

"These books belonged to her?".

"Yes, many of them she borrowed from Edoras' library and never returned them, others she bought herself throughout the years. There was one she liked especially", he said examining shelf after shelf, "I forgot the title, but it should be here somewhere. Ah, there it is!".

He took a blue tome with golden letters and gave it to her: "_Twilight Tales_", she read out loud.

"It's a collection of poems from different authors, places and times", he explained.

Lothíriel opened the book and flipped through the pages: she had always preferred romances to poetry, but she was willing to give it a try. "Do you mind if I keep it, my Lord?".

"Your room, your books, my Lady", he solemnly proclaimed.

Lothíriel stared at him, confused by his sudden gallantry: "I-I will bring it to my room and read it later today, then".

With _Vultures of Silver_ still secured under her arm, she stepped aside and sat in one of the armchairs in front of hearth: she opened the book in her lap and felt immediately the familiar thrill that always came with the start of a new book. The feel of the leather cover under her fingers, the smell of old paper and – why not, dust, the anticipation for the journey into the unknown she was about to embark in. Where was she going to travel? In which age? With whom? Ah, there was no more glorious feeling in the whole Arda! So glorious that it didn't take her long to become so enraptured with the adventures of the disgraced hero Thannon, on a quest to redeem his family's name and find his lover of yore Idril, that she completely forgot about everything else going on around her.

Including her husband, naturally.

She was about to finish the third chapter, when a hand waving insistently in front of her nose brought her back to reality: "My Lady?!", Éomer was calling her.

Lothíriel snapped up from her chair: "I'm sorry, I did not hear you, my Lord!", she apologised.

He raised a hand: "No need to apologise, I'm glad you are enjoying your read. I need to take my leave as I have duties to attend to in town but before I go, I wanted to ask you whether you'd like to join me for dinner in the Hall later today".

Lothíriel paused: the morning had been unexpectedly pleasant, yet a part of her wished she could decline his invitation in favour of a quiet evening to be spent in her room – or maybe in the solar, together with Runhild.

Unfortunately, she knew that was not an option. Not after he had been so kind to her: "Of course, my Lord".

* * *

"Are you sure this was a good idea?".

Éomer sighed, exasperated: "Yes. The only question is whether it was a good idea to invite _you_ as well!".

"Don't listen to him, Éomer. I for one was happy to receive your invite and can't wait to finally meet your wife", Gárwine reassured him as he walked past him and sat on Éothain's right.

"I'm glad you came, I wasn't sure you were gonna make it", Éomer told him with a grin.

Gárwine's eyes glinted with pride: "I know, but the little one is asleep and Brunwyn is staying at our daughter's place tonight, meaning I could afford escaping my grandpa's duties for a few hours".

"How is Estwyn?".

"Like every new parent: tired, exhausted and blissfully happy".

"And Cenric?".

"Alive, at least for the moment: he was already unbearably overprotective during the pregnancy, but now he has reached complete new heights. Just imagine: earlier today he scolded Brunwyn for holding the baby _in the wrong way_!", he burst out laughing: "You understand?! Cenric, who had never held a baby in his whole life until yesterday, correcting Brunwyn who has raised six children! I thought she would have kicked him in the arse!".

"She hasn't?", Éothain asked in genuine surprise.

"Not yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if I find him locked outside of the house when I get back!".

Éomer laughed and raised his mug: "To Estwyn, Cenric and young Freca. And to you, Gárwine!".

"Thank you, my friend! But now pray tell: how are things with your wife? Better?".

Éomer sipped on his ale and pondered carefully his words: "I'd say so, yes. Earlier today I showed her my mother's solar and we spent the whole morning there: we haven't talked much, but we haven bitten each other's head off either".

"Quite the step forward for someone who's been married for two months already!".

Leaning back in his chair, Éomer chose to ignore Éothain's comment: the man was his best friend, they grew up together and he loved him like a brother. But since he had married Lothíriel he had become a thorn in the side, continuously poking and teasing to the point he had started avoiding him altogether in the past few weeks – more precisely since that infamous night at the _Putrid Hunter_ when, according to him, he had done _absolutely nothing wrong_.

"A small step is still better than no step at all, isn't it?", spoke a voice behind them.

Éomer turned around and was not surprised to see Wilrun, the daughter of one of his riders but most importantly one of Runhild's best friends: the girl gave Éothain a dirty look and then just walked away to reach the rest of her family. Seeing the expression on his friend's face, Éomer couldn't help but laughing: "I think you made it to the top of Runhild's blacklist, Éothain. I'd watch out, if I were you: Bema knows what the girl is capable of!".

The man looked utterly bewildered: "Does Wilrun even know your wife? And what does Runhild have to do with it?".

"I don't think they ever met each other, but I know Runhild has been trying to convince her friends that Lothíriel isn't half that bad and that she deserves a chance. I only wish I could convince _you_ of the same!".

"Well said, Éomer", Gárwine nodded in approval. "And by the way: did you know that Lady Aldwyn was in town last week?".

Éomer, who had been dying to know more about it, immediately seized his chance: "Eofor mentioned it this morning. Did you speak with her? What did she tell you?".

"I did speak with her, but you know Lady Aldwyn: she says what she wants to say, not one word more. In this instance, that she had enjoyed your wife's company and that she commended Runhild's efforts with her. A clear jab to the way some of us reacted to her arrival, if you ask me", Gárwine explained, looking pointedly towards Meregith who was entering the room at that very moment.

"Lady Aldwyn knows Gondor well, it's no surprise she can deal with snobbery better than the most of", Éothain rebutted him, earning himself a sneering laughter.

"How little you know her, Éothain! Granted, she knows how to be diplomatic. But if she dislikes someone, she'll never pretend otherwise just for the sake of it. Trust me: I know it all too well!".

"How's that? Is there something we should know about you and our dear Lady Aldwyn?", Éomer meddled, sensing an interesting story ahead.

Gárwine waved a hand at him: "Please, Éomer: it's no secret half the lads – and lasses, of my generation had a crush on her".

"Even the lasses?".

"Why, yes of course! They all wanted to be like her: she was beautiful, she was charming and she could trash any of us during sword practice. A shieldmaiden through and through!".

"And you know she can be harsh because…?".

"Because I once professed my undying love for her".

Éothain almost chocked on his ale: "I don't believe it: you are making that up".

"I swear it's true: I was sixteen, she was in her late twenties, already married and with two children. Suffice to say it didn't end up well".

They both laughed their heads off: "We commend your courage but come on, what were you thinking?!".

"Thinking? I was a sixteen-year-old boy: I did not think!".

Éothain wiped away the tears with the sleeve of his tunic, but just couldn't stop laughing: "Does Brunwyn even know about it?".

"Which part of _even the lasses had a crush on her_ did you not understand? Brunwyn was in awe with her and besides, after six children and almost thirty years of marriage, jealously is beneath us!".

Eomer gulped down his ale in a vain attempt to stop laughing at Gárwine's juvenile misfortunes: the hall was quickly filling up and getting merrier and louder with each further round of ale distributed across the table. Many of his men looked already positively inebriated, their wives were busy chattering with one another and a half-dozen kids were taking the place by storm, running around the table and bumping against anything – or anyone, who happened to be in their path. He extended an arm and caught one of them: "I got you, little devil!". The boy laughed but wriggled easily out of his grip, sticking his tongue out as he rushed back to his friends.

Seeing all the seats around the table were taken but one, Éomer instinctively turned towards the door and right on cue, his wife chose that exact moment to make her entrance. She walked a couple of steps and then froze, as if she had not expected to see so many people. At the same time, the hall grew terribly quiet and the eyes of every single guest seemed to be fixed on her.

Surely an easy way to enter a room full of strangers, Éomer thought to himself as he rose to his feet and to help her in the chair by his side: "I'm glad you joined us, my Lady".

To his left, Lothíriel answered with a nod of her head and a forced smile on her lips.

To his right, Éothain rolled his eyes.

Caught in the middle, Éomer took a deep breath.

Hoping food would help easing the suddenly tense atmosphere, he signalled one of the maids and soon enough, dishes started to leave the kitchen at a steady pace, filling the hall with a smell he could have recognized among hundreds of others. And judging by the way everybody was smiling, he wasn't the only one!

By his side, his wife looked way less amused and eyed suspiciously the food on her plate.

"It's a meat pie", he explained, hoping she would stop probing her portion as if it was some kind of weird dead animal.

"Filled with?", she asked, testing the consistency of the crust.

"Chicken liver, bacon and mushroom, my Lady", Meregith explained with a smile, filling her mug with abundant dark ale.

Lothíriel's eyes bulged and she immediately dropped the fork, as if it had suddenly become scorching.

"Liver pies are a traditional festive dish and trust me: they are delicious", he encouraged her.

But Lothíriel's pushed her plate aside: "I won't eat it", she said, crossing her arms in front of her and glaring openly towards Meregith.

Éomer rubbed his eyes: the woman could be worse than a spoiled child! "I am sure the cook can arrange something else for you, but you should at least try the pie: I don't think there's anything quite like it in Gondor, maybe you'll…".

"I don't need to try it to know I don't like it", she cut him short. "Meregith, send for Runhild: _she_ will know what to do", she ordered in a dry voice.

A few outraged glares were exchanged across the table and by his side, Éothain barely suppressed a snort. His wife however did not seem to care in the slightest and for the life of him, he could not understand her: earlier that day she had been unexpectedly approachable, so much that she had even asked him to stay with her in the solar. As she read her book, he had been intrigued at seeing her going through a seesaw of emotions: he had seen her clutching anxiously at the cover of the book, holding her breath; he had seen her struggling to keep her posture as she went through what he could only imagine was a particularly riveting chapter; he had seen her struggling to keep a straight face as the corners of her mouth twitched and a hint of dimples formed on her cheeks. Nothing like the ice-cold Princess everybody had gotten used to, nothing like the woman sitting by his side in that very moment. And yes, he could understand that entering a room to find a few dozen eyes staring at you could be intimidating. But why would anyone react that way – he thought as he observed her glaring towards a group of girls sitting on the other side of the table, was beyond him.

To his right, Gárwine suddenly stood up: "Do you mind, Fram?", he asked the rider sitting by his wife's side. The man nodded – gladly so, and as they exchanged seats Gárwine held up a bottle: "Some wine, my Lady? It's not an Amrothian red, but I think you might like it nonetheless", he asked her with a wink.

"Hey old man, where did you get that bottle from? Feasting on wine while the rest of us have to drink ale!?".

Éomer seriously considered the idea of kicking Éothain out of the hall, but Gárwine beat him: "_I_ feast on wine because I am at least able to tell the difference between a vintage red and that watered-down crap you drink at the tavern every night, you dolt!", he shut him down while the rest of the hall erupted in a roaring laughter. "So, my Lady: wine?".

Lothiriel pushed her ale aside: "Yes, please".

"My name is Gárwine, my Lady. It's a pleasure to finally meet you".

Lothíriel gave him a polite nod: "The pleasure is mine".

Gárwine waited until she had taken a sip from her goblet, then leant towards her and whispered something in her ear. Lothíriel lowered her eyes, then nodded again: "A little bit".

"Stupidity, my Lady. And a bit of jealously. But mostly stupidity".

Éomer turned towards Éothain, but the man shrugged his shoulders: what the heck were they talking about? Who was stupid? Who was jealous?

"And? Are you finding it difficult?".

"A bit, but Runhild is a very good teacher".

"Is she? Is there anything the girl can't do?".

To his utter astonishment, Lothíriel giggled: "I will let you know when I find it out. _If_ I find out, that is".

Gárwine laughed: "She is a force to be reckoned with, isn't she?".

"Yes, I've never met anyone quite like her. At least not in Gondor".

"I dare say she is one of a kind, also among us", Gárwine agreed. "Has she convinced you to go out riding?"

"She has indeed: she has asked me so many times that in the end I couldn't but capitulate. We'll try tomorrow, weather permitting. I only hope she hasn't planned anything too difficult: I am not a very accomplished rider I'm afraid…".

Éomer saw his chance and just couldn't let it slip: "You are more accomplished than you think, my Lady. Riding from Minas Tirith to Rohan in the heart of winter is never easy, yet you did well", he praised her and in all honesty, it was true. She might have had a terrible attitude, but never once had she complained about riding in some of the worse possible weather conditions.

She didn't answer, staring instead into her lap.

"That's true, though I must say: riding that beautiful mare of yours probably makes everything easier, am I not right?", Gárwine tried to rescue the situation.

"I suppose so".

"And I've heard you are taking good care of her".

"If feeding her treats while the stablemaster is not looking is considered _taking good care_ then yes, I am caring very much for her".

Gárwine gently nudged her but contrary to his expectations, Lothíriel didn't seem to be bothered: "I do it as well, but I have to be careful: my horse has a tendency to consider fingers as part of the treat!".

Lothíriel smiled: "Fortunately Rohiril is very gentle".

"She is a truly gorgeous animal and mind you: coming from a man of Rohan, that's quite the compliment! Have you had her long?", he asked.

"No, not long. She was given to me…", Lothíriel started to explain, but then something suddenly changed in her demeanour: her smile vanished, her hands clutched nervously together, her cheeks flushed. Éomer placed a hand on her shoulder but before he could get a word out, she snapped up from her chair: "I-I'm actually feeling very tired, my Lord. I think I'll call it a night and retire to my room, if you don't mind", she declared before rushing towards the door and disappearing into the dark corridors.

Éomer exchanged a baffled look with Gárwine: "Did I say something wrong?".

* * *

**Author's notes:** I know, I know: over four months since the last update. I won't even start to explain why, I suppose you all know how life can be at times! I had very little time and kept writing and re-writing bits and pieces of this chapter whenever I could, but ultimately only managed to consolidate it now! Probably not the best chapter because of the circumstances, but hopefully it'll improve in the next installments.

_Guest:_ thank you! :)

_Katia0203:_ literally _knock_ some sense into him! As you said, I also believe his behavior is understandable and inexcusable at the same time.

_Bregor_: always thought the story of Eomer's family was one of the saddest ever.

_Wondereye_: indeed Lady Aldwyn managed to get her out of her shell! It is silly to lock oneself away but I think for someone who is as introverted as this Lothíriel is, it's not an unlike behavior because she finds her whole situation simply too stressful and uncomfortable. The question is whether she has finally reached her breaking point and is ready to risk venturing out.

_readergirl4985_: thank you! Writing about Runhild is always so much fun!

_Menelwen_: thank you for your trust, I'm glad you are giving this story a try! I have to say that are some GREAT fanfics about this couple taking place during the events of the LoTR and if I were you, I'd give them all a try! :) I believe you're right on the assumed lack of empathy but ultimately, they are all at fault for their own prejudices…

_rossui: _they are developing, still not sure they are improving though :)

_EugeniaVictoria_: in a normal situation it would be unlikely, you are right. But with Lothíriel being informed about the wedding only a few days ahead and with no communication whatsoever taking place between her and Éomer, I think it becomes a more likely scenario. Also: for weeks Lothíriel has stood by her decision that she wanted to have nothing to do with Éomer and did not care to learn anything about him – not from him nor from others, which is why she is literally just starting to discover the man now! :)

_notusingthisgaian_: I think the next 1-2 chapter will be to your liking then (hope so at least!).

_ckara:_ sorry for the long wait!

_tgo62_: how right you are! This journey will be long and winding…

_SwanKnightoftheNorth:_ you are right, I was shamefully late with this update. Sorry about that! I won't abandon this story - of this you can be certain, and I hope I'll be able to post a bit more regularly in the future.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Aldburg, April the 11th, 3018_

The sun glared bright on the snow capping the peaks of the White Mountains and a light breeze occasionally swept the plains. It was cold but with the sun warming her face, enjoyable as well: "I have to admit it, this is beautiful".

"Even though it's not Dol Amroth?", Runhild teased her with a grin.

Lothíriel stretched her neck and wrapped a scarf around her shoulders: "Actually, as weird as it may sound, it reminds me of it".

"Because it's a sea of grass?".

"No, because of the mountains".

Runhild paused and stared at her, then at the towering peaks: "The _mountains_ remind you of the _sea_?".

"Yes".

"Well I've never seen the sea, but I must admit I imagine it to be quite different from a mountain!".

Lothíriel chuckled: "Of course it is, you silly. Yet somehow, they share the same type of majesty, of grandiosity. One looks at them and can't help but feeling intimidated and at peace at the same time, you know?"

Runhild wasn't however paying her musing any attention. She acknowledged her words with a distracted nod and after much rummaging, she pulled out of her saddlebags enough food to feed five people at least: cheese, dried meat, bread, sweet pies, fruits…by the look of it, her maid must have lead a full-scale raid in Aldburg's kitchens and left nothing behind!

"Unless this friend of yours is very hungry and hasn't eaten in a week, I dare say you took way too much food, Runhild!".

"Wilrun is a good eater, I am hungry and you should be too. Now if only the damn girl would deign to show up: I have no idea how she manages to be always so late, really!".

Lothíriel turned towards the city and spotted a figure passing through the gates: "Could that be her?".

"Woman. Chestnut horse. Riding like she has Sauron on her trail – or, more likely, like she is monstrously late for a breakfast appointment. Yes, that's definitely her".

After a breakneck gallop, Wilrun slowed down her horse to a canter and nimbly jumped down the saddle: "I know, I know: I'm late! I'm sorry but my brother decided to throw a tantrum and…".

"We are not interested in your pathetic excuses!", Runhild cut her short, crossing her arms in front of her: "Keeping Lady Lothíriel waiting for you was very rude!".

Wilrun turned as red as beetroot and gave her a hasty bow: "I-I'm sorry, my Lady. It was not my intention, truly!".

"It's alright, no need to apologize: Runhild is teasing you and besides, we too have only just arrived!", Lothíriel reassured her, only to be promptly rebutted by her maid.

"I was not teasing".

Wilrun threw one glove at her, then another: "Runhild, you are incorrigible! You know I'd have never been late on purpose!", she yelled before turning back towards her. "She has told me so much about you that I was really looking forward to finally meet you. I woke up much earlier than usual just to be sure I would not be running late. But of course, all that could go wrong, went even worse. I mean, look at me: I didn't even have the time to brush by hair!".

Lothíriel stared at her messy hair and felt laughter bubbling up inside her.

When Runhild had asked whether a friend of her could join them on their ride, she had been reluctant. She didn't know why, but she had never felt comfortable with making new acquaintances: not in Rohan, not in Dol Amroth. She had never been any good with small-talk and all that sort of skills – very much valued among noble ladies, required to engage a someone you've just met in a polite conversation. Most of the times, she either found herself struggling to find something sensible to say or – even worse, coping with an embarrassed silence. She had thought that having a stranger joining them would have made the day way less enjoyable, but of course it had been silly to have such concerns about one of Runhild's friend: "Do no fret, Wilrun: what matters is that you managed to make it. Now let us sit and enjoy our breakfast, shall we?".

"Gladly, my Lady", the girl told her with a smile, her cheeks finally turning a normal colour.

They sat around the refreshment that Runhild had so carefully prepared and like every morning since her arrival in Aldburg, the very first thing her maid passed her was the raspberries' confiture: "Wilrun likes this almost as much as you do: you better help yourself before she gobbles it all up!".

"I'd never do such thing! And besides, I have to admit I'm not very hungry…".

Lothíriel took a slice of sweet bread and spread a generous amount of confiture on it: "How come?".

"I suppose I enjoyed yesterday's dinner more than you did and indulged in too many pies", Wilrun explained with a nervous laughter.

"Oh, I didn't know you were there as well…".

Wilrun hesitated for a moment, then leant towards her and placed a hand on her knee: "May I ask you what happened? I mean you behaved quite rudely, if you don't mind me say so. But based on everything Runhild has told me, I have the distinct feeling there might have been a reason for it, one having to do with Meregith perhaps?".

"I just didn't like the food and…".

"You didn't like the food?", Runhild burst out laughing. "Please, let me explain this: a month ago, the cook had fried liver prepared for dinner. Meregith brought Lady Lothíriel a portion but she -and I, both failed to mention what exactly was in her plate: she took a bite, paled first, turned green then and finally ended up vomiting everything…on Meregith herself!".

This time, it was Lothíriel's turn to feel her cheeks burning: "It's not like I did it on purpose! But the taste of entrails – and liver especially, has always turned my stomach upside down and I can't help it, I can't control it!".

Runhild was laughing so hard, she had to put down her food least she might have chocked on it: "I know, but Meregith's face was priceless. Whenever I have a bad day, I think about it and my mood is immediately lifted!".

"So that's why Meregith insisted on cooking liver pies. We were all surprised as they are normally only served around Yule…".

"Yes. I asked the cook this morning and he said Meregith insisted that it was the only appropriate meal to celebrate Lady Lothíriel's first dinner in the hall. He even praised her thoughtfulness while all Meregith was doing, was trying to sabotage the night and avert the risk that – Bema forbid, Lord Éomer and Lady Lothiriel could start getting along. And I'm sorry to say that, but _you_", Runhild said pointing a finger at her, "played right into her game".

Lothíriel hunched her shoulders and looked away, while Wilrun seemed honestly puzzled: "But why? If that's what happened, why didn't you just say it?".

"What should I have said? _My Lord, your housekeeper is purposefully serving me a dinner she knows will make sick in front of everybody_?".

"Well yes!".

"She'd have denied it, Wilrun. In the past two months she has never – not even once, been kind or nice to me. Yet yesterday the moment I stepped in the hall, she was suddenly full of smiles and sweet swords. Had I accused her of plotting against me, how do you think it would have looked like?".

Runhild nodded: "You are right: Meregith would have denied any ill intention and to the most, her word is worth way more than yours. Had I been in your place, I'd have smiled, thanked the woman for the thoughtful dinner, apologized for not liking it and asked to be served something else. The dinner would have continued as if nothing had happened, Meregith's plan would have failed and she would have been livid".

Lothíriel hugged her knees to her chest and rested her head on top of them: Runhild and Wilrun were right, she had handled things precisely like Meregith had expected and she had made herself a fool in front of the whole hall and – most importantly, her husband.

Honestly, that was what bothered her the most.

After the morning spent in the solar, she had felt so relieved: despite the initial awkwardness, he had been kind to her and showed her a side of him that had aroused her curiosity. The way he had spoken of the room, the melancholy when he had mentioned how neglected it had been, his mother, her books… there had been so many questions she had wanted to ask him that in the end, she had found herself almost looking forward to their dinner!

What she hadn't expected though, was that his invite had been extended to half of the town as well. That itself had caught her off guard and well, Meregith had taken care of the rest: "I overreacted. I was angry and didn't think straight".

Runhild moved closer to her and passed an arm around her shoulders: "I know. We just have to make sure that Lord Éomer knows it as well".

On the other side of the blanket, Wilrun smiled: "Runhild is right. Besides, Lord Éomer himself is quite… temperamental, shall we say? If there's one person who should be able to forgive someone for overreacting, that's him!".

"You really think so?".

"Of course, my Lady: all will be good, don't worry. But can I ask you something else about yesterday?".

"Sure".

"Who was jealous and stupid? I've been thinking about it for the whole night: who was Gárwine speaking about? Meregith?".

"No, not Meregith. The two girls sitting on the other side of the table. Don't know their names".

Wilrun thought about it for a moment, then seemed to remember: "Ah, Gram and Torfrith's daughters! What about them?".

"They were talking about me, making fun, calling me _ghost_ and all that sort of things".

"Ah, don't take it at heart, my Lady: those two are known for spending most of their time tattling about things that are none of their business. I can't stand them either but I'm glad Gárwine noticed what was going on and intervened. I honestly sighed in relief, seeing how he had managed to rescue the situation. But then you suddenly stood up and left: why? You seemed ad ease speaking to him…".

Lothíriel stiffened and glanced nervously towards Runhild: "I…I was suddenly feeling unwell and needed to return to my room because…because…".

"… because the smell of liver pies was making her feel terribly nauseous", Runhild came to her rescue.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that: I hope you weren't too sick".

"No, no: I was fine in the end. I just…".

"Overreacted?", Runhild finished the sentence for her.

Lothíriel smiled and nodded: indeed she had. Talking about Rohiril and the day she had gotten her, remembering how sick she had felt, she had started to feel agitated all over again. Afraid she might have had one of her crisis in front of everybody, she had returned to her room as fast as she could. But once she had reached her safe haven, the angst had subsided and melted away, replaced by anger and frustration for how she had managed to ruin everything back in the hall.

"It's understandable. Emptying your stomach in the middle of a hall crowded with strangers must be everyone's nightmare", Wilrun agreed as she gulped down her third slice of bread.

Runhild glared at her: "Didn't you say you weren't hungry? Yet here you are, devouring half of the breakfast while you talk about _emptying one's stomach_!".

Wilrun froze and made for saying something, but her mouth was full and it took her a solid minute to chew it down: "I'm sorry, I was taken about yesterday's story and didn't realize it I was eating so much!".

As she told it however, her hand was already reaching for a piece of cheese and Runhild had to slap it away: "Leave us something to eat, for Bema's sake!", she cried as she grabbed what was left of the food and brought it out of her reach.

Wilrun puffed her cheeks and laid back on the blanket: "Fine, I'm anyway full! Can you imagine how bossy she can be? I don't know how you cope with her, really!".

Lothíriel laughed and to her immense relief, the discussion moved away from the events of the previous evening and to more frivolous topics, namely Runhild and Wilrun childhood's escapades, most of which involved the former getting the latter in trouble.

Like that time when an eight-year-old Runhild decided she had had enough of ponies and attempted stealing the stallion of Wilrun's father, only to end up flying into the mud with a lump on her head and a badly battered pride. Or that time when following a quarrel with her older brother, Wilrun had let Runhild convince her that the best way to take revenge on him was serving him some disguised castor oil. The boy ended up at the healer – meaning Runhild's father, and the girls were grounded for a whole month.

Observing their friendship, the way they would finish each other's sentence, the way they always seemed to know what the other was thinking, Lothíriel found herself wishing she too had had something like that growing up. But aside from a few acquaintances, she had never had any real friend in Dol Amroth, she had never had someone with whom she could do silly things and get into trouble. She had Gaeril, of course: but her old maid had been more like a motherly figure than a friend. To be honest, her lack of friends had never bothered her in the past. Only now, looking at the chemistry between Runhild and Wilrun, did she realized what she had missed.

It was almost noon, when Wilrun snapped up from the blanket and pointed towards the city: "Hey, look at that!".

Lothíriel shielded her eyes and noticed a small caravan entering the city: "Today is market day, isn't it? They must be merchants".

Runhild also stood up, looking visibly excited: "Yes, but those are not your average merchants!".

Lothíriel took a better look but quite honestly, they looked to her like normal people on normal carts: "What's so special about them?".

Runhild dragged her on her feet and hastily collected blankets and whatever else was lying on the ground: "Those my Lady, are Gondorian merchants. And we are going to see what they have to sell: right now!".

* * *

Éomer knocked on the door and waited patiently for someone to come open the door: he wasn't sure how appropriate it was to visit a couple less than two days after the birth of their first child, but Brunwyn had insisted so much that there he was.

"Éomer, we weren't expecting you! Come in, come in", Gárwine welcomed him.

The house was unusually warm and from the next room, Éomer could hear Estwyn humming a song to young Freca: "I hope I'm not intruding: I passed by your house looking for you and your wife left me with little choice but to come here".

"I'm glad she did. Cenric is at the workshop, but Estwyn will be happy to see you. Can I offer you something to drink?".

"No, I'm fine".

"You said you came looking for me? Do I dare hoping is about yesterday?", Gárwine asked him as he dragged two chairs towards the fireplace.

Éomer smiled: "Straight to the point as usual. Yes, it's about yesterday".

"Spit it out then: what is it you wanted to ask me?".

"Just the opinion of someone who isn't so biased", he admitted.

As a matter of fact, he had been thinking incessantly about his wife since the moment she had left the hall the evening before. It seemed to him that there were two sides to her and he just could not understand who was her real self: she could be the most insufferable woman he had ever met and yet the day before there had also been moments when she had seemed to drop the mask and reveal herself to be just a young woman caught in a situation she did not know herself how to handle. The problem was that she could switch back and forth in such an unexpected, unpredictable way, that he never knew what to do around her!

"She didn't seem half the harpy everyone talks about, if that's what you're asking".

"I thought you'd say that. I just can't seem to understand her".

"I'm afraid I don't know her nearly enough to help you with that. One thing struck me about her however: we always picture noblewoman – Gondorian ones especially, to be this kind of self-confident creatures. Yet she looked more like a normal girl of her age: timid, a bit insecure perhaps. In hindsight, hosting such big feast in her honour was not a good idea: something more intimate would have suited her better, don't you think?".

"Actually, that had been my initial intention. But when I told Meregith she got so excited about it that I let her convince me that _going big_ was the most appropriate thing to do".

Gárwine laughed then. Not a genuine, amused laughed. Rather a sarcastic, bitter one: "And you thought an advice about your wife coming from Meregith's mouth was to be followed because?".

"Come, Gárwine. I know she doesn't like her, but…".

"She hates her guts, Éomer".

"Now you are exaggerating".

"No, I'm not. At first I thought it was just a passing phase, that sooner or later she'd have come to terms with her presence here and moved forward. But she hasn't and I'm not surprised to hear she played a role in yesterday's disaster for she'd do anything to prevent your marriage from being a happy one. Meregith hates your wife and blames her for things that happened long before she arrived in Aldburg, Éomer. It's high time you acknowledge that".

Éomer rubbed his face and sat heavily in the chair by Gárwine's side: "You mean Dawyn?".

"Yes, I mean Dawyn".

He swallowed, almost too afraid to say the words: "She…".

"She loved you".

Gárwine words hung heavy in the air and for a while, all he could do was staring into the crackling fire. "I suppose I've always known it", he finally admitted. "But I've never led on her false hopes: we grew up together, she was like a sister to me but nothing more. When she suddenly left, I was surprised but suspected at the same time it might have been due to Lothíriel's arrival. I tried to speak to her, but she avoided me and while it saddened me to see her leaving, a part of me thought it was for the better: finally, I thought, she'll move past whatever unreciprocated feelings she has and will be able to live her life like she deserves to".

Gárwine placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze: "What happened is not your fault, Éomer. And it's also not your wife's fault. I can't even imagine the pain of losing a child, let alone losing them all like it happened to Meregith. But that does not justify her hatred for Lothíriel".

"No, you are right. I know Meregith and Lothíriel have never gotten along, but I hadn't realized just how bad things really are: I'm so often away and even when I'm here, there are so many things to do, so many people looking up at me to solve their problems, that it feels like I'm never _really_ here. I let myself be distracted and did not realize what was going on under my own roof…".

"Don't be too hard with yourself, Éomer: you are a good man and none better than you could lead us through these dark times. I know you are overwhelmed with things to do but as you said, if only you had paid more attention to what's going on around you, you'd have realized Aldburg hasn't exactly given your wife a warm welcome. Both Brunwyn and I have heard several of the maids talking about her feud with Meregith: some think Meregith is right in being so harsh with her, others believe she has crossed the line and is making things worse on purpose. Sadly, I tend to believe the latter".

"But if that's true, if Meregith really is tormenting her like you say, then why didn't she say anything? Why did she never complain?".

"With whom, Éomer? With a husband she has barely seen? Can you really fault her for thinking there's no one she can speak to?".

"No. Damn it, I had no idea things had gotten so out of hand with Meregith but I'll speak to her", he promised, already knowing that wasn't going to be an easy conversation nor a pleasant one. But Gárwine wasn't one to spread unwarranted rumours and if he believed there was truth to what people said, then he needed to act.

For his wife's sake. And for his'.

"You may come, father!", Estwyn called from the next room.

Gárwine stood up and extended an arm towards him: "Come, Éomer: let me introduce you to my grandson".

Sitting in an armchair by the hearth with a blanket on her legs and a tiny bundle in her arms, Estwyn greeted him with a tired and yet beaming smile: "Éomer, what a pleasant surprise!".

"Good morning, Estwyn. How are you feeling?", he asked her as he kneeled by her side.

"Exhausted and desperately wishing somebody wasn't waking me up every hour throughout the whole night, but otherwise I'm good".

"I won't stay long", Éomer reassured her as he took his first glance at Freca.

Hazelnut eyes. Slightly upturned nose. Sparse freckles on his cheeks. Éomer stared at him and then turned back towards Gárwine, who looked positively smug: "Notice a resemblance?".

"A resemblance? He's your spitting image!".

"Luckily for him, I might add: I don't want to sound too cocky, but I was quite the man when I was in my prime! Nothing like Cenric anyway!".

"Father!", Estwyn tried to scold him, but she could barely keep herself from laughing.

As for him, it took him all his self-control to keep a straight face: Cenric had many qualities and was going to be a great father. But when it came to looks, with his gangly figure and hook nose, he really could not compete against his father-in-law!

Estwyn leant towards him, so that he could take a better look at Freca: "Father is right, Éomer. About yesterday and well… about everything else too", she whispered. Then, seeing the way he was looking at her, she lowered her eyes: "I'm sorry, I did not mean to pry…".

"No, it's alright. It's no secret anyway, I suppose".

"I spoke to her many times, you know? To Dawyn, I mean. But she didn't want to listen: it was as if she was stuck in this idea that one day you'd have awoken and suddenly realized she was the love of your life. That you considered her like a sister, that everybody told her you would have never loved her back the same way she loved you, she just did not care". Estwyn leaned back and held Freca a little tighter: "I remember the day she left: I went to meet her in the stables, told her I was happy for her. She seemed… melancholic, but resolved at the same time. I think your wife's imminent arrival had finally opened her eyes. Yet she had no hard feelings towards her and were she here today, I don't think she'd approve the way her mother is treating her".

"I should have spoken to her. Long before Lothíriel's arrival. I should have spoken to her and found a way to make her understand. Maybe things would have gone differently then".

"Maybe. But know this, Éomer: she did not blame you and she wasn't angry with you. More with herself, I think. And she needed to leave this place: living under the same roof together with your wife would have done her no good".

"No, of course not".

He gently stroke a thumb on Freca's plump cheek: the boy opened his big eyes and stared at him with a frown, before bursting in a desperate cry. "He's tired", Estwyn told him as she cradled him to her chest and hushed him to sleep.

Éomer kissed her hand and pulled himself up: "As is his mother".

"No, I'm fine. You can stay", Estwyn offered him, but her eyes were already closing.

Éomer smiled and tiptoed out of the room.

* * *

The arrival of the Gondorian merchants really was a big deal.

Too much of a big deal, actually: the streets were so crowded that the only way to move forward was pushing people out of your way and hope you wouldn't get pushed back in return. At the front, Runhild was their forerunner: though small, the girl did not shy away from clearing the way with a well-aimed elbow here and a nudge there. She held on her hand with an iron grip and dragged her along while behind her, Wilrun hung tight on her arm: "Do you see them?", she cried.

"I…I think they are at the square", Lothíriel yelled back.

"You sure?".

"Yes, I see them!".

Runhild suddenly steered right and climbed up a fence: "Follow me: we take a shortcut!".

Lothíriel thought about complaining but quite honestly, she'd have rather clambered Minas Tirith's walls on her nails than staying a minute longer in that crowd. She pulled herself up, carefully climbed over to the other side and hoping her gown hadn't gotten stuck into anything, jumped down: to her relief, she landed on her feet and not on any other part of her body.

Runhild waited for Wilrun to follow suit, then grabbed their hands and started running uphill through a maze of small alleys, tiny pens and barking dogs. By the time they had reached the top of the city, Lothíriel's shoes were completely covered in mud and the sweat was making her dress stick to the skin on her back: "One more step and I'll collapse, I swear!", she moaned, leaning against a wall.

Behind her, Wilrun looked just as exhausted and short of breath. Runhild on the other hand, was as fresh as a daisy: "Hush. If it wasn't for me, we'd still be stuck down there".

"Yes, but there was no need to run like that! Do you want to see us dead?", Wilrun groaned.

Lothíriel tried to sit on a log, but Runhild had none of it: "You will rest later. Now, let's go!".

Wilrun gave her a resigned look and all they could do, was to meekly follow her: when Runhild was in that mood, there was nothing that could stop her from getting what she wanted!

They rounded the corner and to Lothíriel's immense relief, the main square did not appear to be nearly as crowded as the streets below. She looked ahead and on either side of the hall's entrance she counted a total of six stands that – she could see now, were clearly selling Gondorian merchandise: jewellery, fabrics, weapons, but also dried food and spices that filled the air with their aroma… Lothíriel took a deep breath and for a moment, she really felt like she was back in Dol Amroth!

She turned around but her friends were nowhere to be seen, surely already scouting the market to see what it had to offer. Left with little choice but to wander on her own, Lothíriel approached the first stall and almost immediately, her eyes were drawn by a golden bracelet: the chain was thin and rather simple, but it embedded three small pearls of red coral.

"A fine choice, Princess".

Lothíriel smiled at the young merchant: it had been a long time since someone had addressed her with her former title. "I have a friend on whom this would look just perfect".

The man walked around the stand and took the bracelet from her hands: "I'm sure it would look even better on yourself", he told her in a deep voice. He gently took her wrist and while there was nothing blatantly improper about his manners, the way he brushed her arm a little longer than necessary and the way he stood right next to her so that their bodies were almost touching, was way too familiar for her own taste. She tried to step aside but he held on her hand and planted a kiss on it: "Ah, see: as if it was crafted for you".

Lothíriel pulled her hand away and this time, he let her go. But he was still looking at her in a way that made her very, very uncomfortable: "I-I will think about it", she stammered as she tried to take the bracelet off but of course, the clasp would not open.

"Let me help you, Princess", he offered but before he could lift a finger, someone forcefully pushed his way between the two of them.

"Found something to your liking?".

The merchant paled visibly and within the blink of an eye, he had retreated back behind his counter. As for her, she stared mouth-gaping at the imposing figure of her husband: "N-no, I was just having a look around…".

"May I?", he asked her.

She nodded and he took her hand between his', examining closely the bracelet: "It is beautiful but I have to disagree with our man here", he said glancing towards the merchant, who looked like he desperately wished the ground could suddenly open under his feet and swallow him. He took a silver bracelet and gave it to her: "I think something like this would suit you much better".

It took Lothíriel a moment to overcome the shock for her husband's sudden appearance but when she finally did, she couldn't help but agreeing with him: "I know: gold has never suited me, it makes my skin look greyish".

To her surprise, he seemed embarrassed: "No, that's not what I meant".

"It's alright, really. I was only interested in this as a present for Runhild: soon it will be her birthday and I know it's not something you celebrate here, but we do in Gondor and I thought this would look perfect on her. Much better than on me, anyway!".

Her husband seemed to consider her words carefully: "Yes, I think you are right: I could see her wearing something like this", he agreed.

He helped her unfastening the bracelet, then passed it to the merchant who wrapped it quickly in a black velvet cloth and passed it back to her without even daring lifting his eyes from the ground: no doubt her husband knew how to intimidate someone without the need of uttering a single word!

"Thank you, my Lord".

He waved a hand: "Please, there's no need for thanking me. Are you sure you don't want to buy anything for yourself? Maybe we should take a look at some other stall?", he suggested, offering her his arm.

"Gladly, my Lord. I wonder where Runhild and Wilrun are: I lost them the moment we set foot on the square".

"I saw Wilrun buying some leather crafts over there, while Runhild was haggling with a merchant selling…well I don't know what he was selling but by the look of it, she was giving him a hard time. Wouldn't be surprised if he'll end up giving her everything for free".

"Yes, that sounds just like her", Lothíriel agreed, placing her hand under his arm.

They strolled around but with the square quickly filling up, it was getting almost impossible to see what each stall was selling and before she even knew it, she found herself pressed against her husband's arm: "Would you like to get something to eat?", he asked her.

She shook her head: "No, we had an abundant breakfast earlier today!", she yelled back.

The place was getting more cramped and louder by the minute and when someone accidentally kicked her feet, she had to cling with all her strength onto her husband to avoid tripping forwards. He promptly circled her shoulders with his arm and shielding her with his frame, he led her towards the side of the square, where the crowd was not so thick and the buzz not so deafening: "Better?".

"Yes, thank you", she sighed in relief.

"The market is normally not so overcrowded. I suppose everybody got a little too excited about the arrival of your fellow countrymen: it has been a long time since we last saw Gondorian merchants here".

Lothíriel sat on the edge of a trough and tucked a few rebel strands of hair behind her ear: "Why is that? Do they normally only make it until Edoras?", she asked.

Éomer gave her a strange look: "They normally don't make it until Rohan at all. Relations between our countries have been growing tense and sparse in the past few years, that's one of the reasons why our wedding was arranged: if it wasn't for your presence here, those merchants would have never travelled to Aldburg and today would have been just another normal market day".

Lothíriel lowered her eyes and stared at her muddy shoes: to be reminded of the contractual nature of their marriage was irritating. At the same time, she had never spared a thought on what their union would have meant to the people of Rohan and also – she supposed, the ones of Gondor.

Éomer sat by her side and under his weight, the trough gave a worrying squeak: "I know things haven't been easy for you and I know I've been an absent husband. But if you ever need something, you can always come knocking at my door".

Herself unsure what to say, Lothíriel said nothing and kept staring at her feet.

"Our is not a marriage of love, that much we both know. But that doesn't mean it has to be a miserable one so if there's anything I can do to make it better, you need only ask".

Lothíriel felt a lump in her throat and swallowed hard trying to get rid of it: "I'm sorry for yesterday, my Lord. I wasn't feeling very well and decided it was for the best that I returned to my room. But I shouldn't have left that way".

"It's alright, no need to apologize. I'm just glad to see you're doing better today".

"Yes, much better. It was….it was nice to ride out with Runhild and Wilrun".

"Even though you are not an _accomplished rider_?", he teased her, remembering her word from the day before.

She smiled: "Yes: we didn't ride far. We always had the city in sight".

"I know. Runhild came to me a few days ago to ask me for permission – not that you need one to go out with your friends, and I told her that that was as far as I could allow you to go without taking guards with you".

"Given that back in Dol Amroth I could not leave the palace unless I had two guards with me, riding alone with the girls was already a very daring endeavour for my standards".

"More or less daring than having to cope with a flirtatious Gondorian merchant?", Éomer asked her with a wicked smile.

For the second time that day, Lothíriel felt her cheeks burning: "I wasn't flirting!".

"No, you were not. He was though!", he laughed. Then, seeing her embarrassment, he tried to turn serious: "I suppose back in Dol Amroth your father's guards ensured nothing like that would ever happen. If you want to avoid such encounters in the future, just take a guard with you. Or even better: take Runhild!".

"Are you implying Runhild strikes more fear than one of your guards?".

"I can find you more than a few men who'd rather ride into battle than face an angry Runhild. Ah, speaking of the devil, look who's coming".

Runhild emerged from the crowded square and stumbled towards them, her ginger head only barely peaking from behind a huge pile of fabric: "My Lady?".

"Valar, Runhild: did you buy all that stuff?".

"This? Oh, this is nothing: there's more down there but I first need to bring this home and then I'll return for the rest", she explained, already striding blindly down the road and towards the cottage she shared with her father.

When the pile of clothing started to lean dangerously on one side, Lothíriel snapped up: "I better go help her before everything ends up in the mud!".

"Yes, that's probably a good idea".

* * *

**Author's notes:** I wanted to write something about this chapter but I just can't seem to be able to do it. I finished this installment while being forced home by the Coronavirus lockdown: I live in Switzerland but being Italian and having my family there, this past weeks have been hard and dreadful at times. Writing has helped me keeping my mind busy and will hopefully continue to do so. I'm sure this awful crisis will soon pass and we'll all go back to our normal lives but until then and wherever you are, please to do not underestimate the threat posed by this virus and follow the social distancing rules that are being advised worldwide.

Stay home, stay safe!

_WillowMist14_: thank you! At least this update didn't take as long as the previous one :)

_rossui_: I agree: the more I write about Runhild and Gárwine, the more I grow fond of them!

_Beancdn_: I know, it took me ages to post the previous chapter and long enough to post this. The story isn't deserted though, just a slowly progressing one! I'm so glad you like my imperfect-characters because as you say, they feel to me way more relatable than a perfect one. As for Lothíriel's reaction, you were close enough as to why it triggered such reaction!

_xxMizz Alec VolturiXx_: hope you enjoyed this update then!

_Catspector_: glad you liked it! As for the pie, she's not allergic but well, close enough! Of course the whole situation could have been easily handled had she reacted like Runhild suggested, but this Lothíriel is a bit of an awkward, insecure young girl who has to learn how to deal with such situations in a mature way. Until then, she'll be easy game for someone like Meregith.

_Guest_: now you know!

_tgo62_: I also normally see/prefer Imrahil in the good father role. This time, I decided to play it a bit differently though. Unfortunately, his actions are now keeping Lothíriel and Éomer apart without them even realizing it…

_Katia0203:_ she has to learn and she has to grow, on that we can all agree! But at least she's aware of how bad she handled things and is willing to remedy!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Aldburg, April the 19__th__, 3018_

Lothíriel closed the door behind her and after a quick glance at the sky, wrapped a scarf around her head and hurried up the street: a light drizzle had settled on the city since the early morning, but the days were getting longer and the arrival of spring was definitely in the air.

Round the corner, she crossed her way with the young guard who was always doing the night shift at the hall's entrance. He was about her same age, with a smile always on his face: "Good morning, my Lady".

"Morning Eofor".

"Are you coming from Runhild's house? How is she doing?".

"Much better. A couple more days' rest and she'll be as good as new", she reassured him, trying her best to keep a straight face: the boy had an obvious crush on her handmaid but alas, she did not seem to care in the slightest about him.

"That's great news!", he declared with a beaming smile before heading towards the stables.

Lothíriel chuckled at his hopeless optimism: Eofor was a fine boy but she just could not see him ever getting a chance with Runhild. Actually, she could not see anybody ever getting a chance with her for despite having had a few dalliances, her maid simply did not seem to care about the idea of settling down with anybody. Not yet at least.

The rain slowly eased and by the time she was in sight of the hall, Lothíriel was finally able to get rid of her scarf and better enjoy her morning stroll through Aldburg's busy streets. The Gondorian merchants whose arrival had caused such a sensation the previous week, had returned to the city on the day before and while Lothíriel ensured that she walked wide around the stall of the one who had tried to flirt her, she gladly stopped by Harn's one: "Good morning, Princess", the man greeted her with a smile as he folded some fabrics and loaded them into his cart.

"Good morning, Harn. Making ready to leave?".

"Yes, I'm afraid our time in Rohan has come to an end. I'd have gladly stayed a bit longer but alas, the others are eager to return to Minas Tirith".

"Why is that?".

"Trading has been profitable, but not equally so: I sold most of what I had brought with me and secured a few months' worth of trading, but others haven't been so lucky and only barely managed to get even with the expenses of travelling this far".

"That's too bad. Does that mean we won't see you again?", Lothíriel inquired him: aside from Runhild's bracelet she hadn't bought anything else but still, the merchants' arrival had felt like a breath of fresh air and she'd be disappointed to see them gone for good.

"I don't know, Princess. I'd like to return but if I can't find other merchants willing to come with me, I won't be making the journey all by my own".

"Maybe next time you could make a stop at the Hornburg. I've been told the city is big enough and what is more, the Prince is stationed there: surely it must offer good trading opportunities".

Harn grew serious, the dimples on his full cheeks quickly vanishing: "Actually, we wanted to go there as well. But when we reached Edoras, we were…how can I put it…strongly advised to rethink our plan".

Lothíriel frowned: "Why is that?".

"They say the way can be dangerous and besides, we heard rumours of the city being overcrowded with refugees and short on food supplies. People with hardly enough food to put on their plate are highly unlikely to spend money on fancy clothing and jewelleries".

Lothíriel clasped her hands together and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Those were things she should have probably known but truth to be told, she wouldn't even be able to place the Hornburg on a map: "Do you expect to encounter troubles going back home?".

"I hope not! Our way here was as smooth as silk: we hired four guards just in case, but the most dangerous thing we encountered was a rabid dog! Whatever troubles are brewing in Rohan, the Great West Road appears to be safe".

"That's good. When will you leave?".

"Around noon today. Even if the road is safe, we'd still rather be spending the night in a settlement than in the wilderness. There's a village half-day from here: we'll stop there and continue our journey tomorrow early morning".

"Sounds like a good plan", she agreed before a loud noise of crashing wood had them both snapping around.

"What are they doing?", Harn asked as he stared at the charred remains of an abandoned building being finally torn down.

"Last winter a lightning struck that house and set it on fire. Luckily, it had been abandoned for years and nobody was hurt: Lord Eom… my husband", she corrected herself, "decided they could use the plot to build a new orphanage".

Harn looked incredulous, shocked almost as he stared at her husband clearing the area of the rubble: "And he is doing it…by himself?!".

"No, but when he's in town he likes to get involved", she explained and could perfectly understand the man's bewilderment.

"That's not something you're likely to witness in Gondor: a local ruler rolling up his sleeves and doing the dirty job alongside his men". Then, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, he tried to remedy his words: "I did not mean disrespect, Princess. Of course, your father and your uncle…".

"My father and my uncle would never do such thing, I know. A few years back my father ordered the House of Healing of Dol Amroth to be thoroughly renovated: he closely followed the whole project, visited regularly the place, ensured the workers were well paid and had all they needed. He cared deeply, but surely enough I've never seen him hammer in hand, working at their side!".

"Yes, that's what I meant of course!", Harn rushed to agree.

"In Gondor there's a clear distinction between nobility and commoners. Here, boundaries are blurred…".

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?".

Lothíriel thought about it for a moment: "Sometimes is bad. But it's mostly good", she admitted.

Harn smiled and probably trying not to shoot himself in the foot a second time, disappeared behind his cart. He re-emerged a few moments later, holding a pile of scarlet, green and lilac fabrics: "Shall I wrap them for you?".

Lothíriel arched an eyebrow: "Why for me?".

"It's the fabrics you requested: for your summer gowns, you know?".

Lothíriel stared at them, then at the man: "Me?".

"Why, yes! Your friend came by yesterday, asked me to prepare them. Did she not come on your account?".

"My friend? You mean the one with ginger hair?", she asked, though it was improbable that Runhild had found the strength to visit the market: a terrible flue with high fever had forced her in bed since the beginning of the week and her father had watched closely that she did not strain herself.

"No, the taller one. Wilrun I think is her name. She mentioned you needed new dresses and spent a long time going through all the fabrics I had: finally, she settled on these three which, I agree with her, will match perfectly your complexion. She was supposed to pick them up today and you know, blurred boundaries and all, I assumed you came in her place".

"I…yes, yes of course. How silly of me to forget", she lied: she had no idea why Wilrun had claimed the fabrics to be for her, but it was probably for the best to go along with it.

"Sure you don't need any help?".

"Yes, don't worry: I'll take them straight to the hall".

"Alright then: I suppose I shall bid you farewell, Princess".

"Goodbye Harn. Ride safe home and hopefully, we shall meet again".

Harn bowed, more elegantly than one would have thought possible for a man of his size, and took his leave: "Until the next time, Princess".

Holding carefully the fabrics in her arms¸ Lothíriel considered heading for Wilrun's house but immediately changed her mind: the girl lived at the other side of the town and even though the rain had now stopped, she did not wish to try her luck and risk getting the cloths wet and dirty. So instead, she made her way towards the hall and after some struggle to climb the stairs, what with her hands busy and her skirt continuously getting in the way, she finally reached her room. She pushed the handle with her elbow and kicked the door open, only to find herself staring at the last person she wished to see there: "Meregith", she greeted the housekeeper.

The woman observed her sternly and Lothíriel knew what she was about to say even before she opened her mouth: "I see my Lady found the time for some shopping".

"And? Something wrong with it?".

"No, of course not. Though from someone who refuses taking any of the responsibilities that come with her role, decency would dictate to at least avoid spending a fortune in clothes you clearly do not need".

Lothíriel rolled her eyes: she could have told her that it was none of her business; she could have told her that those fabrics were not hers; she could have told her that with only five gowns in her closet, the average Aldburg's maid probably possessed more clothing than her. But it wouldn't have changed a damn thing so instead, she turned around and left the room.

With Runhild sick, Meregith had been taking care of her room in the past few days. A duty that any other maids could have performed but naturally, the housekeeper had not passed on the chance of being more around her than ever: what better opportunity to stick her nose into her business and find everyday something new to complain about?

Ah well, at least Runhild was doing better and would soon be back…

* * *

A curse escaped him as a thorn of epic proportions snuck its way under the nail of his thumb. Then, suddenly remembering the little girl who had just brought him lunch, he turned around just to find her staring at him, wide eyed.

"…and that my dear child is something you should never consider saying. Now come, let's go distribute the lunch to the other men", the orphanage's caregiver explained, pulling the little girl away and throwing him a murderous glance at the same time.

"Really, Eomer? Cursing at the presence of a child?", Gram teased him as he passed him the last set of nails.

Holding on a pole for support, Torfrith stretched an arm and held the beam in place: "Just imagine if Éothain had been here: by the end of the day, the girl would have had a richer cursing vocabulary than the three of us together".

"That's why I sent him helping the loggers instead: had he been here, not only the orphans' vocabulary would have been enriched with words they do not need to know, but sure as the day we'd have all been drunk and on our way to the tavern by now!", he explained with a grin as he hammered the plank in place.

"Meaning we now have a bunch of drunk lumberjacks swinging their axes in the woods? I'm not sure how reassuring that is…".

"Nobody – not even Éothain, can mess with the loggers".

"That's somewhat of a disappointment. Would have loved to see him gagged and tied to a tree".

Éomer chuckled and stepped down the ladder: the project for the new orphanage was coming about just fine and if all went according to plan, by the summer solstice the children should be finally able to leave behind that old, crappy building they were living and move to a much more appropriate construction.

By his side, Torfrith looked just as satisfied with their job: "By the way, you never told us how you managed to break the deadlock with the King's Council".

"The merit is not mine: had it been for me, I was ready to ride to Edoras and knock some sense into their heads. Luckily, Éowyn managed to turn the tables and got the King's approval before Grima and the others could do anything".

"I can't believe they opposed so fiercely the construction of an orphanage", Torfrith bitterly admitted. "Even before the fire, this plot had been abandoned for what…ten years? Nobody ever claimed it and then all of a sudden, the moment you decide to make good use of it, they swarm around it like bees on honey".

"At this stage, I don't even think it's about the orphanage".

"Then what is it about?", Torfrith asked and immediately, Éomer bit his tongue: even though he trusted his men with his life, he was also very well aware that the only way for Grima to react to swiftly to his plans was to have an informant in his own city. As such, he could simply not afford anymore to speak so openly about his discontent with the King's Council.

He tried to think of something to say that would move the discussion to more harmless topics, but was saved the effort by the arrival of his friends' daughters: "Good morning, my Lord", Godliss greeted him.

By her side, Trewyn passed her father a luncheon snack and then held one in front of him: "You've all been working since the early morn, so we thought about bringing you something to eat".

Leaning with his back against the fence, Éomer showed the package the orphan had just delivered him: "You shouldn't have bothered: the kitchen already saw that we are all well fed", he declined her offer, taking a bite from his bread.

"Maybe you can keep it for later?", Godliss suggested with a smile that looked sweet enough, but that only managed to further sour his mood.

He stuffed his mouth the rest of his lunch, then collected his hammer: "No, but thank you. Gram, Torfrith, let's get going: I want this side of the groundwork to be finished by today".

Fathers and daughters exchanged a hesitant look and after a moment of embarrassed silence, the girls were left with little choice but leaving. "Is everything alright?", Gram asked him with a frown as they resumed their work.

"Nothing against the two of you, but your daughters should learn some respect", he hissed back in response.

Both Gram and Torfrith looked absolutely clueless: "Why? What have they done?".

Éomer rubbed his face. He had not meant to bring the topic up, but he just couldn't help himself: "Mocking someone in her face is already despicable enough. Doing so in a language you think the person won't understand, is even worse. Last week I invited you for dinner because aside from being riders in my Éored, you are my friends and I respect you. But I expect the same type respect to be extended not only to me and my household, but especially to my wife".

Both men looked visibly abashed: "I'm sorry, Éomer. Whatever they did, please accept my apologies on their behalf: I…we", Torfrith corrected himself glancing towards Gram, "will speak to them".

"Of course", the other man agreed. "Had we noticed something, we would have told them to behave. But we'll ensure they'll do it from now on".

"I hadn't noticed it either, if that can make you feel any better. Gárwine did though".

"I see. I take it your wife understands our language and that when Gárwine mentioned someone being jealous and stupid, he was speaking of our daughters?".

He nodded and didn't even bother justifying Gárwine's words, for they were clearly accurate.

"Can't really fault him for saying so: Godliss and Trewyn always had a soft spot for you and yes, mocking your wife was definitely stupid. We'll see that they apologize to her as well", Gram reassured him but to be honest, Éomer wasn't sure that was a good idea: he had never cared for gossip and rumours, and yet even _he_ knew that his friends' daughters had a reputation for bullying anyone who wasn't part of their closest acquaintances and in fact, it was no surprise there had always been bad blood between them and Runhild, who had a completely different - and much gentler, personality. However, he could hardly tell two proud fathers that their daughters were nothing short of harpies and that he'd rather have them as far as possible from his wife, especially now that he was trying to set things right with her!

"Éomer!", Torfrith suddenly called him, pointing with his arm towards the city's entrance.

He turned just in time to see someone galloping at full speed through the gates: a sure omen of bad news those days. He laid down his tools and signalled Gram and Torfrith to follow him.

They met the rider nearby the hall's entrance, where the man jumped down his saddle and rushed towards them: "Lord Éomer?", he asked staring at Gram.

"That would be me".

"Oh, I-I'm sorry…".

"Don't be. What news do you bring?".

"T'is the Holbeck, milord. T'was attacked and burned to the ground!", the man explained, his voice shaky.

A burned farm was always bad news, yet Éomer allowed himself to feel relieved: "We knew it could happen: I'm glad we had Cenulf and his family to leave the place and move to Caerdydd". However, seeing how the man paled visibly at his words, Éomer started to get a bad feeling: "Because the farm was deserted, am I not right…".

"Edbert, milord".

"Am I not right, Edbert?".

"It was, m-milord. Until last week".

"What does it mean _until last week_?! I had given a clear order: the place was to be abandoned, the people relocated!".

Erdbert's hands were visibly trembling, sweat trickled down his temples: "Y-yes, milord. But last week a fight broke out between Cenulf and the local ealdorman, after which Cenulf decided to move back to his farm together with his family…".

Éomer grabbed the man by the shirt, their faces now only inches away: "And nobody thought about stopping the fool? Nobody thought about informing me?", he cried and for each word coming out of his mouth, Erdbert seemed to shrink a little further.

"The ealdormen said we could not stop him, said the man is as stubborn as a mule and that if he wanted to go back to his farm, then we had to let him go. Please, milord: I am but a shepherd, I did what I was told to do!".

Torfrith place a hand on his shoulder and Éomer let go of the man, who staggered back and then collapsed on his knees: "Go to the hall and see that you are given a warm meal and a place to stay, Erdbert", he growled, trying to contain his rage.

He needed to thing straight.

"Gram, Torfrith: ready half of my men. Send someone for Éothain and call Gárwine as well: we might need his tracking skills. And send a few men ahead: I want them to ride to Caerdydd and wait there for me. Once we have disposed of those who attacked the farm, someone will have to answer for all of this".

The two men nodded and without any further delay, they were already on their way. As for him, he only quickly glanced at Erdbert, who was still on his knees and shaking like a leave, before heading towards his study. He dressed himself as fast as he could and after a frantic search among the many papers scattered around, he retrieved a map of the area where the Holbeck farm was located: a half a day's ride from Aldburg, the region had little more than a few rolling hills, vast pastures and a stream fed by the melting snow of the White Mountains. The farm itself was known for making some of the best cheese the Eastmark had to offer and for generations, it had belonged to Cenulf's family: the man liked to claim his ancestors could be traced back to the time of Aldor the Old and such was his pride, that it wasn't with a light heart that he had taken the decision to order him and his family to abandon their home. But Orcs' presence in the area had been steadily increasing and to him, it was clearly only a matter of time before they would turn their attention to such an easy, tempting target.

Shortly after Yule he had ridden personally to the farm and together with his men, they had helped Cenulf, his wife and their three sons to move to the closest fortified settlement: Caerdydd. There, he had ensured they – and their animals, had a decent accommodation and could continue producing their famous goat cheese to sustain the family in the months ahead.

To him, the problem had been solved. Sure, he knew Cenulf wasn't happy, but not in a thousand years would have he imagined the man would disobey his orders and move back to his farm, exposing his family to a danger against which they had no defence.

His armour now fully buckled, Éomer took a moment to seat back and calm his nerves, but apparently even that was a luxury he could not afford: "My Lord?", a voice called him and judging by the accent, he already knew what to expect.

He opened the door and found himself staring at the umpteenth Gondorian messenger: "I am Ohtar, my Lord. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth sends me".

Éomer expected him to give him the usual two letters – one for him and one for his wife, but this time the letter was only one, addressed to his name. He dismissed the man and sighed in frustration: he had no time to waste but it could be days before he came back, so he better checked the content of the letter before leaving.

He scrolled quickly through the lines, his anger quickly mounting: now this as well!

He left his study like a fury and headed straight towards his mother's solar, where he found his wife sitting comfortably by the fire, a book in her lap and a cup of tea in her hand: "Is it asking too much that you answer your father every once in a while?", he hissed holding the letter in front of her nose.

Lothíriel stared at him, surprised at first, upset then. She leant back in her chair and sipped on her tea: "Yes", she just said, staring at the fireplace.

"Yes?".

"Yes, it is asking too much. Had I wanted to have any sort of communication with my father, I would have written him long ago. But I'm not interested in anything he has to say", she drily rebutted him while pretending to read her book.

He grabbed it and threw it away: "It's been months since our marriage! How long do you want hold this grudge against him?".

Lothíriel snapped up from her chair and faced him with a stance he had not expected by someone like her: "For as long as I wish! And to be honest this is none of your business, _husband_".

"It becomes my business the moment two messengers a month ride into my town. It becomes my business the moment twice a month I have to read and answer the concerns of your father, who doesn't even know if his daughter is dead or alive, for she stubbornly refuses to answer any of his letters!".

Lothíriel torn the letter from his hands, crumpled it and then threw it into the fire: "It's a bit too late to be concerned for my well-being. He did not care when he sold me to you like a piece of meat, he should not pretend to care now!".

"You are such a spoiled child…".

"And you are a barbarian with the manners of an orc!", she shrieked back.

"Maybe I really am: less than three months we've been married and already I'm starting to think that even an orc would have made for a better wife than you do!", he yelled to her face and this time she backed off, stared at him wide eyed and then turned around and left the room.

* * *

Lothíriel stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her. She paced furiously up and down, tears streaming down her cheeks and feeling such a blind rage that she thought she might have burst any moment.

Wilrun's fabrics were where she had left them, on top of her desk: she grabbed them one by one and tossed them around. Next, she snapped the wooden box where she kept her correspondence and threw it against the wall: it crashed with a bang, the lid came off and rolled under her bed, a dozen letters glided to the ground, one landing on the candle on her nightstand where the fire quickly consumed it. Her hands closed in tight fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms, she kicked the empty chest she had carried with her from Dol Amroth: once, twice, and then again until it bumped against the wall.

How could she be that stupid? How could she _ever_ think she could have a decent relationship with her husband? He was but a brute. And a boor! There was no fixing in their marriage because she could never have anything to do with a man like him and it had been a waste of time to think otherwise!

Feeling like she was burning from the inside, she rushed to the window and opened it: holding tight on the sill, she took a deep breath, then a second one.

_I can't go on like this anymore_.

Breath in, breath out.

_Curse Rohan. Curse Gondor. Curse them all!_

She opened her eyes: her hands were shaking, her knees also. She leant on the wall for support and stared out at the city: she had made some good friends there, had even come to like a few things of that place.

But that was not enough to endure it all.

That was not enough to call it home.

Far down, she spotted a small cart passing through the gates and venturing South on the planes: atop was a couple with a young boy. They advanced slowly, their two horses looking more like dray ones, their backs broad and short, their lower legs feathered. She followed them until they had become but an indistinguishable dot on the horizon and then, it struck her.

She closed the window and turn around: that was one crazy plan. So crazy, that it might have just worked!

She searched for a blank paper, fetched quill and inkwell and sat at her desk: _To my dear friend Runhild…_

* * *

Later that afternoon, on plains battered by the wind and with the sun already setting behind the White Mountains, Gárwine looked with some concern at his Marshall.

Éomer looked restless in his saddle: he kept shifting around, sometimes he would glance back to the direction where Aldburg - now long disappeared from sight, stood and then he would rub his face and grip angrily on his reins. Sensing his master's mood, Firefoot looked just as nervous, tossing his head up and down, snorting.

Mindful to keep some distance between their horses, Gárwine approached him: "Are you alright, Éomer?".

"No".

"What's wrong?".

"I'm a moron, that's what's wrong!".

"Why? What happened?".

"Nothing that I can fix now", Éomer growled back, punching angrily his thigh.

"Shall we stop?".

But he leant forward instead, pushing Firefoot to a faster pace: "No. We ride: the sooner I'm back, the better".

* * *

**Author's notes**.

_rossiu_: a few baby steps forwards, one giant step back!

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: yeah, rather short lived unfortunately!

_pzacharatos_: you're welcome. And this time, a faster update!

_Tibblets_: thank you. During such times, I guess we all need some good luck!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Aldburg, April the 20th, 3018_

Runhild tiredly dragged herself up the stairs, panting ever so slightly: after a week spent lying in her bed eating little more than chicken broth, she felt terribly weakened and drowsy.

"Runhild, it's so good to see you! Are you feeling any better?".

She waved a hand and paused to catch her breath: "Better, yes. Though I still feel like I've been run over by a stampede".

"Shouldn't you be home then?", Eofor asked her with a concerned frown.

"Don't worry, I just wanted to check on Lady Lothíriel. I've heard what happened yesterday…".

"Ah, yes. Half of the hall heard their cries. You should have seen Lord Éomer when he left… I think the orcs will throw themselves on their own swords when they see his face!", he chuckled, though she failed to see what was so funny about it.

"Do you know what happened? I heard at least ten different accounts".

"Same here. But I know for a fact that Lord Éomer received a letter from Dol Amroth right before all the ruckus started: maybe it has to do with something that happened back there?".

"Maybe. And have you seen Lady Lothíriel?", she asked, but Eofor shook his head.

"No, I believe she hasn't left her room since yesterday".

"Then I shall better go and see how she's doing", she told him, pushing open the heavy wooden doors that lead into the hall. Inside, it was cool and quiet: preparation for supper had not started yet and on her way upstairs, she only crossed a couple of delivery boys running their daily errands. But she was so engrossed with brooding over what might have happened the day before, that she didn't even care for greeting them.

Against all odds, Éomer and Lothíriel had seemed to be making some progress. Lothíriel especially had looked way more at ease: she had met with Wilrun while she was sick, she had kept going out even if she was not there to accompany her and in general, it seemed like she had finally come to terms with her new life in Rohan and started embracing it instead of stubbornly refusing it. On his side, Éomer too had seemed more attentive towards everything that concerned her, may that be a noisy merchant or the fact that his wife had moved from Gondor with only a few clothes and desperately needed new ones. Ironically, things had taken a turn for the better right after that disastrous dinner in the hall, as if it had somehow triggered a progress in their relationship. And while it was true that most of what Éomer and Lothíriel did was tiptoeing around each other, as if they were still testing the ground and trying to figure out what to do with one another, that was at any rate already a huge improvement, one that had made her hopeful things might get soon better.

As such, she just could not understand what might have happened to get things so out of hands, so suddenly. What she had no doubts about though, was that Lothíriel must have taken it pretty hard, which was why she had defied her father's orders that she rested another couple of days and dragged herself all the way up there: she needed to see for herself how she was doing because no one could do that in her place.

She approached Lothíriel's room, knocked lightly on the door and then, without waiting for a response, made her way in. To her surprise however, the door did not budge: clearly it must have been locked it from the inside. _Strange_, she thought: Lothíriel never locked her room.

She knocked again, this time more firmly. But still, she got no answer from the other side: "Lothíriel, it's me", she called, but the room stayed eerily quiet and for some reason, Runhild started to feel agitated. She told herself that Lothíriel was probably just sleeping, that maybe she had had one of her crises and then succumbed to a deep sleep like it often happened, but still something felt…odd, out of place. Left of the door, on a low wooden table, stood a plate with a cold chunk of meat and some dried-up vegetables. Runhild took it and walked down the corridor until she found one of the maids: "Ides, what's this?", she asked.

"Lady Lothíriel's lunch, why?".

"Because it's almost supper time and this plate has stood there long enough that there were flies buzzing around it".

"She told me to do so", Ides explained, shrugging her shoulders.

"Lady Lothíriel told you to do what, exactly?".

"Yesterday she called me in and said that under no circumstances were we to bother her. She said she wanted to be left in peace and that we were to leave her meals outside of her room, that she would have helped herself when she felt hungry".

"And? Has she eaten anything at all since then?".

"No", Ides confirmed her fears. "Not yesterday's supper, not today's breakfast or lunch".

"And nobody found it strange? Nobody got worried?".

"I thought it was strange but Meregith said to let her be, so…".

"Ah, of course", she shrieked, throwing her arms in the air and hurrying back towards Lothíriel's room. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her hands were sweating in an unusual, weird way: "Lothíriel, open this door: now!", she ordered.

But once again, she was met with a worrying silence.

"Lothíriel!", she cried, slamming slammed both her fists against the door and kicking it at the same time.

By her side, Ides was also starting to look concerned: "What shall we do?".

She pushed her aside and rushed to the window, opened it and standing on her toes, leant with half of her body forward: "Eofor!", she called.

The guard's head peaked from behind a pillar: "Runhild? What are you doing there?".

"Come up here!", she ordered.

"Why?".

"Just do it!", she yelled and this time, he did as bid.

He emerged from the stairs a few moment later, a spear in one hand, his cheeks burning: "What happened?", he asked, looking both alarmed and confused.

"Break the door down, Eofor".

He stared at her like she had just grown a second head: "You want me to break into Lady Lothíriel's room?".

_This_ close: she was _this_ close to throttle the man! "Yes!".

Eofor glanced at Ides, who just nodded: "Do as she says".

"Alright: I just hope you two know what you are getting me into", he agreed, before ramming into the door with his shoulder.

The door barely creaked and Runhild sighed in frustration. But Eofor tried again, harder this time and at his fourth attempt the door finally and suddenly yielded, sending him flying into the room. Runhild passed over him and rushed inside, looking frantically around: the room was in disarray, as if someone had turned it upside down. Clothes and papers lied on the ground and the bed had been clearly used but not made up afterwards: "I thought you said she hasn't left her room since yesterday".

Behind her, Ides looked just as taken aback: "That's what I thought. I did not see her leaving her room…".

"…and I did not see her leaving the hall", Eofor confirmed as he rose to his feet, massaging his aching shoulder.

"Then where is she?", Runhild cried, pacing up and down the room and fishing random stuff up from the floor, looking desperately for a clue.

It was then that she saw it: a letter. A letter addressed to her name. A letter written in Lothíriel's elegant calligraphy. Left in the middle of a completely empty desk and held in place by a small velvet pouch, as if to be sure she would not miss it. She took it with trembling hands, holding her breath as if afraid of its content: and the more she read, the more that sinking feeling in her stomach turned into panic.

"Runhild, what is it?".

"Ides, w-where is Meregith?", she asked, her throat suddenly dried out.

"In the cellars I believe, wh…".

She didn't let her finish and run instead out of the room and down the stairs: she felt dizzy and her head was spinning, but she just kept going down and down, until the air became cooler and the light grew dim. Behind her, she could hear Eofor and Ides's steps following her, but she did not stop to wait for them, not until she had reached the pantry and pushed the door open: "Meregith?", she called.

The housekeeper emerged from behind a shelf loaded with wheels of cheese: "Runhild, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in…".

"You have to send a search party, Meregith!".

She stared at her in confusion, then at Eofor and Ides who had finally caught up with her: "And what do we have to search for, exactly?".

"Not what, but who: Lady Lothíriel!", she explained, waving the letter in front her while she tried to catch her breath. "She run off, Meregith. She wants to get back to Gondor and must have sneaked out somewhen earlier today: you have to send men to find her before she gets into troubles!".

Meregith took the letter from her hands, read it, then carefully folded it and returned it back to her: "Lady Lothíriel is a grown woman who takes her own decisions", she just said, her voice and her face void of any emotion.

As it was all normal, as if there was nothing to be concerned of!

"You can't be serious, Meregith. If we don't find her, it's not a matter of _if_ but merely a matter of _when,_ will something bad happen to her! Surely you don't want that either!".

"As I said, she's a grown woman and if that was her decision, then be it. Most of the men rode with Éomer and I won't endanger the city by sending those few who are left on a pointless hunt for someone who clearly doesn't want to be brought back".

For maybe the first time in her life, Runhild felt totally speechless: she just stared at the housekeeper, unable to believe the words coming out of her mouth, unable to grasp the fact that Meregith would have rather left Lothíriel to die on her own, than rescue her.

"Runhild is right, we have to find her!", Ides stepped forward, trying to support her.

But Meregith was unmoved: "When Éomer will come back, he'll decide what to do about his wife. Until then, we wait".

"And you think he'll approve of this?", Eofor pressed her.

"If he won't, then I'll deal with it. Besides, that's none of your business: I advise you get back to the post you abandoned, Eofor".

He made for protesting, but Runhild stopped him: "Forget it, Eofor. It's pointless to discuss with her anyway", she told him, then snapped around and started running again. This time upstairs, then cross the hall and outside, down the street that lead to the stables.

Once again, she could hear Eofor and Ides' steps behind her: "Runhild, wait! Where are you going?".

But once again, she didn't stop, not until she had reached the box where Shadow was enjoying a meal of succulent hay and apples' scraps: she threw her saddle on him and arranged his bridles and reins as fast she possibly could without spooking him with her sudden appearance. When Eofor materialized at the doorstep and saw what she was doing, he tried to stop her: "You don't intend to go out looking for her in that state, do you?".

She angrily pushed him out of the way: "If nobody is going out for her, then I will!", she hissed. "But I won't be looking for her: me alone, I'll never find her. I'll ride for the Holbeck farm and tell Lord Éomer: if I hurry, I may be able to reach him before nightfall!".

"Then let me do it, there's no need for you to ride while you can barely stand", Eofor tried to convince her but before he could do anything, she had already jumped on Shadow's back.

"Feel free to join me if you wish, but I won't be left twiddling thumbs while Lothíriel is out there".

* * *

Rohiril tossed her head sideways and ignoring completely her orders, slowed down her pace to a walk.

Lothíriel sighed but there was nothing she could do: they had left Aldburg in the early morning, taking advantage of the coming and going caused by the construction of the new orphanage to go by unnoticed. It had been easier than she had expected and not even in the stables, had she been stopped by anyone. A scarf around her head to cover her identity, they had passed undisturbed through the gates: concerned that galloping away might have raised suspicions, they had moved slow at first. But as soon as the city had disappeared behind them, she hadn't hesitated to push Rohiril at full gallop for most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon as well and quite honestly, it was no surprise that her mare was now exhausted and could not keep up the pace anymore.

"It's alright, Rohiril", she reassured her, patting gently her neck: "I'm sure we'll soon find them and then, it won't be long until we make camp for the night and get both some rest".

Rohiril answered with a snort, one that she translated in her mind to something like _don't get your hopes high, woman_. And she would be right to tell her so: they had passed the village where Harn and the rest of the Gondorian merchants had spent the night in the late morning, and yet several hours later they still hadn't caught up with them and weren't even able to spot them in distance. The sun would soon set and if they didn't manage to find them, they'd be forced to spend the night outside on their own, completely alone.

A shiver went down her spine at the thought of it: _don't panic, Lothíriel_, she tried to encourage herself but the sight around her, was not a comforting one.

Not long after having crossed the village, the landscape around them had somewhat changed and the road was now often skirted by wooden hills, the type of which she did not recall from the time she had ridden from Minas Tirith. But then again: back then the weather had been horrible and her mood desperate, so it could be that she simply hadn't noticed them.

_Yes, surely that must be it_, she told herself, because the possibility that she might have gotten lost was something she could not think about. Not now.

Suddenly, Rohiril steered right and it took Lothíriel some effort to bring her back on the road: "I know you're tired, but there's no need to be nervous as well", she told her as she led her back on the path. Ahead of them, the road gently winded to the right and keeping only a few feet away from a thick forest, climbed up a small hill: from the top of it, she might be able to see a few miles in distance and spot the merchants, Lothíriel thought with some anticipation. Resisting the urge to push Rohiril forward, she allowed her to keep the pace she was most comfortable with and waited with bathed breath until the road had reached the peak. Once there, she immediately glanced down, hoping with all her heart to finally see something that wasn't grass or trees.

And she did see something.

Just, not what she had expected.

She froze, and Rohiril froze with her too: in front of them, no further than five or maybe six hundred feet away, a cart was toppled in the middle of the road, the horses which had once hauled it lying on the ground by its side. One of them lied still in the middle of a pool of dark blood, while the other seemed to be moving. But when she looked better, Lothíriel realized she was mistaken: the horse's belly was open, his entrails spread around.

He was not moving. Something was moving him.

Behind his body, half-hidden behind the crushed remains of the carriage, something brown-furred moved, something strong enough to effortlessly drag away the carcass of a full-grown horse. And then, as if her eyes were only able to gradually take in the horror of the scene in front of her, she saw them: the corpses. Two of them, a man whose body was half trapped under the cart; and a woman, her too slumped on the blood-soaked grass, not far from the horses.

At first, Lothíriel told herself that they may have been still alive but only when she looked better, did she see their torn, battered bodies.

She brought a hand to her mouth, fought down the urge to retch: they had to get out of there, as silently and as fast as possible! But just when she was about to turn Rohiril around, someone bolted away from the under cart and started running blindly down the road, away from them: a child, she noticed in horror! He was crying and screaming, his clothes stained red but seemingly unharmed while behind him, two giant hideous-looking beasts emerged from the mangled remains of the horses and Lothíriel had never seen an uglier, more terrifying creature: they resembled wolves, but there was something profoundly evil in their look.

Their eyes fixed on the small boy trying to escape their clutches, the beasts growled and jumped forward and it all happened so fast, that she did not have time to think: "Over here!", she cried at the top of her lungs, standing on the stirrups and waving her arms.

It worked: both beasts stopped dead in their tracks and turned around, the hair on their necks standing, their blood dripping fangs exposed. They eyed her, they eyed Rohiril, and she knew what they were seeing: another meal, another prey. They leapt forward and she just had the time to grab the reins, before Rohiril bolted at full speed down the hill first, into the woods then. The ground was treacherous, uneven, covered in leaves, stones and logs. The trees were close to each other and Rohiril was brushing them so close, that Lothíriel had to squeeze her knees around her back to avoid being hit. She laid low on the saddle, twigs whipping her face and leaving her soon covered in scratches: she tried to steer Rohiril back towards the road, but she had completely lost control and all she could do, was holding tight on her, hoping she'd manage to outrun those two ghastly creatures. She risked glancing behind them, but they were nowhere to be seen and the sound of their steps too, seemed to fade further and further away.

Maybe they would really manage to do it, she thought!

She turned back and her eyes widened at the sight of a low-hanging branch right in front of her, but it was too late to do anything: it smashed her right into her chest, tore her from the saddle and sent her flying down a ravine. She landed hard on her back, then started tumbling down for what felt like an eternity and at every turn, at every twist, something new was crashed until there was not a single part of her body that hadn't been completely wracked.

When she finally stopped, her eyes snapped open but she did not dare moving. She waited in silence as the steps of their pursuers got closer and closer: _please_, she thought.

The beasts passed far above her but did not slow down, keeping their chase for Rohiril without realizing she had fallen from her saddle. She held on until she could not hear them anymore, then struggled to stand up: "Ride, Rohiril. Don't look back", she whispered, staring blankly at the direction towards which they had all disappeared.

Then, she suddenly remembered: the little boy! She ought to find him, bring him somewhere safe! But where? The closest village she knew of, was a day on foot away and there was no way they could get there before nightfall: what if they camped for the night and were attacked? What if those beasts came back for them? Panic surged through her veins, but she warded it off: "We'll walk throughout the night, if necessary!". Maybe they would meet someone along the way who could help them; or maybe the boy knew the area better than herself and could point her to a closer village.

Yes: what mattered the most was that she found him, then they would figure out what to do!

She headed up the hill, careful at first, wincing at every step, at every movement that would send shocks of pain throughout her whole body; but the more she walked, the more the thought of that child, of the horrors he had witnessed and the terror he must be experiencing while he wandered around all alone, gave her strength, courage. Her steps became faster and though it was hard to keep one's bearings in the middle of the woods, she was fairly sure she was going the right direction.

She pushed herself forward, her breath ragged, sweat trickling down her forehead and soon, she was running.

Fast. Hastily. Blindly.

Until something happened.

Something down her leg.

She stared down and for a moment, she felt like she had floated out of her body or like she was looking at someone else: that surely wasn't her feet, that surely wasn't her leg, trapped between the sharp spikes of a rusty leghold trap! That could not have happened and besides, who would leave a trap in the middle of nowhere?!

Then, came the pain. Excruciating, agonizing pain.

She fell back, bit her cheeks until the taste of blood filled her mouth: if she cried, those beasts were sure to find her. She felt like vomiting and passing out all at the same time, but she couldn't. Not now! Her hands shaking almost uncontrollably, she stretched her arms and tried to force open the jaws of the trap. But all she accomplished, was to send an even more harrowing wave of pain up her leg. She took a piece of wood from the ground, bit on it and tried again but the jaws didn't as much move and now, she felt only moments away from unconsciousness. Calling on the last bit of strength left in her body, she dragged herself forward on her elbows, grabbing on anything in her reach that could help her advancing: a trunk, a stone, the ground itself. Her nails dug into the earth but soon, also that last bit of strength failed her.

She rolled and laid on her back: her limbs were starting to feel numb, the noises of the forest felt muffled her ears and the last thing she saw before her eyes shut, was Runhild's freckled, smiley face…

* * *

Six orcs: six orcs were all it had taken to completely obliterate Cenulf and his family.

They had gotten him first, attacked him from behind and slit his throat before he could do anything. Then, they had taken care of his wife: in a desperate attempt to protect their children, she had fought and managed to kill one orc and wound another before being ultimately overcome. After having massacred the family, it had been the turn of the cattle: almost fifty goats, all butchered one after the other. Some had been cooked and eaten, but for the most they had been left to rot on the same pastures where they had once grazed. Finally, the farm had been burned to the ground: when they had arrived, little more than a pile of charred remains was left standing in its place.

Luckily for them, the muddy ground had made it a child's game for Gárwine to follow the tracks the orcs had left behind: they had found them sheltering in a cave not far from the farm itself, probably biding their time to return and scrap some more meat off the bones of the slaughtered animals.

In a sense, he should have been grateful that it had been a small party the one responsible for the massacre: when disposing of it, none of his men had been injured and everyone was getting home to their families. But the fact that _such_ a small party had caused so much troubles and destroyed something that was almost like an icon of the East-mark and their traditions, was hard to accept. Even harder to accept, was the fact that everything could have been easily avoided: had Cenulf followed his orders, had the ealdormen forced him to stay regardless of their dispute, had someone informed him in time…

"We stop here for the night", he yelled to his men.

"I thought you wanted to be done with this as soon as possible. Sure you don't want to ride to Caerdydd?", Gárwine asked him.

"I don't want to risk one of our horses' legs by riding into a pitch-dark night. Not if it can be avoided: we camp here and move tomorrow at first light", he explained and while that was undoubtedly true, he also had another reason for postponing the moment he'd arrive in Caerdydd and face its ealdormen: namely, the fact that were he to do it now, he wasn't sure he'd manage to talk to the man without beating him to a pulp before. True, he didn't know what happened and it could very well be that Cenulf was at fault. But that did not matter, not when a woman and three young children were also involved: the moment they had entered Caerdydd, it had been the ealdormen's responsibility to ensure the safety of Cenulf and his family, or at least to inform him if he was unable to do so.

And the fact that he had failed to do both things, was hard to forgive.

A fire was started and after having taken care of their horses, his men all quietly got together around it: after the sight of the Holbeck's farm and what happened there, the mood was understandably sombre and even Éothain kept for himself, choosing to eat his meal sitting alone in the back rather than with the others.

"Brunwyn baked a carrot cake yesterday and I managed to snatch a couple of slices before leaving: care to join me?", Gárwine offered him before abruptly snapping up: "Wait, do you hear that?".

All the men grew quiet and aside from the crackling of the fire, Éomer too could hear something: horses. Horses moving – no, galloping towards them.

Within moments they were all on their feet, their swords unsheathed. Because orcs did not ride horses, that only left them with one, unexpected possibility: Dunlendings were attacking them, even though those were not lands they usually roamed and their presence there would be strange at best. But then again: those days, nothing could surprise him anymore.

They extinguished the fire and formed three lines. He stood at the front, Éothain at one side, Gram at the other: "That doesn't sound like many horses".

"No, you are right", he agreed, staring into the darkness, trying to catch any sign of the incoming assailants.

The sound of hoof steps slowed down and suddenly, he heard a voice. A familiar one: "It's Eofor!", the voice called, before muttering a half curse. "Wait until they answer, for Bema's sake! You can't rush in there, you'll find yourself at the pointy end of a spear!".

Another voice answered, a feminine one this time and Éomer lowered his sword. Eofor emerged to his right, hands raised in front of him: "It's Eofor, my Lord".

"I can see that. What the …", he started to say, before spotting Runhild following him a few steps behind. What was _she_ doing there? "Runhild?", he called her, already getting a bad feeling. And the closer she got, the worse the feeling got: she wasn't even wearing a riding skirt but rather a normal gown, like she had been forced to leave Aldburg in a rush and hadn't had the time to change into something more appropriate for a ride in the middle of the night. Eofor's cloak was wrapped around her shoulders and though she jumped down the saddle and advanced towards him like a fury, she looked at the same time completely exhausted.

"She's gone, my Lord!".

"What? Who's gone?".

She punched him in the middle of his chest with both hands: "Lothíriel! She's gone, she run off! What did you tell her to cause her to leave this way, eh?", she cried, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks.

"Calm down, Runhild", Eofor told her, trying to pull her away from him.

"No! I don't want to calm down! I want this one", she yelled pointing towards him, "to tell me what did he tell to my Lady to make her do something so utterly stupid! And then I want him to go find her!".

"She run off?", he stupidly echoed her, somehow unable to process the meaning of those words.

"Yes!", she sobbed, holding up a letter.

Grabbing a torch from Éothain's hand, he frantically read its content and every word felt like a punch in the guts: "When? When did she leave?".

"We don't know for sure, we only realized she was missing this afternoon. Most probably she left in the early morning", Eofor explained, still holding Runhild back.

"How many are searching for her? Where?".

Runhild looked at him like she could have just murdered him, had she had any weapon at arm's reach: "We raised the alarm, informed Meregith. But she refused to do anything until you would be back!".

"She refused?", Éothain asked, incredulous.

"Yes, that's why we came here!".

Éomer stared at Runhild, unable to say anything, unable to move a single muscle: he should have never left Aldburg without first apologizing to Lothíriel. It might have been stubborn of her to refuse answering her father's letters, but she was right that that was none of his business and anyway, he should have never told her those things, he should have never put all the faults for their failed marriage on her. Yes, he had been livid, but that was no justification for targeting his anger at her!

And now, his failure at controlling his temper and at dealing with Meregith on time, might very well cost him his wife's life.

He felt torn between guilt and anger but at the same time, he knew he could afford none of those: not if he wanted to save Lothíriel. He stepped forward and took Runhild by her shoulders, gently but firmly at the same time: "Runhild, I know you're worried but I need you to focus. You know Lothíriel better than anyone else: she is one day ahead of us and I need to know where to look for her. Do you think she might be planning to stop somewhere? Did she ever mention anything? A village perhaps, or a tavern where she might stop for the night".

Runhild thought about it, then shook her head: "No, she never mentioned anything, nor did I. She knows nothing of Rohan outside of Aldburg!".

"What of Lewes?", he suggested. "It's not far from Aldburg and it's on the way South. It doesn't have an inn but maybe she found shelter there for the night".

"I-I don't know. I never heard her mentioning the place, but she might remember it from when she arrived in Aldburg", Runhild sobbed, looking unusually pale.

"Then we'll start searching from there: if we ride now, we'll reach it before the sun rises", he spoke, loud enough that his men could hear him and make ready for leaving. "Eofor, I'll give you a couple of men to escort Runhild back to Aldb…".

"I am not going back to Aldburg! I am coming with you to Lewes and wherever else it may be necessary!".

"Runhild, you are clearly feverish. What is more, your horses are exhausted and wouldn't be able to keep up with us".

"I am perfectly fine! And Shadow has no problem riding until dawn!".

"You'd slow us down, Runhild. And you don't want that, do you?".

"No", she admitted, her fists shaking with rage.

He pulled her to him and held her head against his chest, unsure who needed that embrace more: him or her. "I'll find her and bring her back to Aldburg. You have my word, Runhild".

* * *

**Author's notes:** so, the unimaginable happen and Lothíriel really tried to get back to Gondor on her own. A crazy move, but of course she'd never think she could do it all on her own: catching up with the merchants and then tagging along until Minas Tirith, was the most reasonable plan she could come up with. Unfortunately, a wargs' close encounter is sure to disrupt anyone's plan…

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: killing you I hope not. Themselves…maybe! :)

_SwanKnightoftheNorth_: we're all on the same boat I guess. Here in Switzerland we're in lockdown as well, at least until 25th of April. Let's hope we all get to normal as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I'll enjoy the extra-time to post updates more often! ;)

_Catspector_: yes, they successfully managed to obliterate any progress made in the past chapters. They are both impulsive and Éomer surely has an awful temper, which is a recipe for disaster…

_AmandaBaker852_: though hasty, she was not a complete fool in the planning. I don't think she'd have ever risked travelling totally alone, but what Harn told her in the previous chapter gave her an idea. A decent idea actually, had it not been for the dangers of the road.

_readergirl4985_: she was going back to Gondor, where to exactly we will see in the next chapters. And of course, Meregith had to do her bit to ensure Lothíriel would never return to Aldburg…

_Guest_: he surely did. What is more, he did not apologize, choosing instead to ride away and face the consequences of his words later on, when it might be already too late. It's probably no surprise that Meregith is trying to take advantage of the situation and as per Éothain, his perspective will be cleared up in the following instalments!

_Guest_: she's young and often displays a temper on her own. Éomer well, he just went too far this time. Until they seriously start to communicate with one another and explain the reasons of their behaviours and resentments, they will always continue to clash no matter how much they might have progressed in the meanwhile.

_BlueRevolution_: thank you! It's always nice to hear, especially given English is clearly not my mother tongue. Hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the previous ones.

_Guest_: thanks! :)

_rossui_: as expected, she made a plan of her own and tried to run off. Let's see if Éomer finds her before it's too late. Hope all will get better soon there as well!

_tgo62_: very, very stupid and reckless…


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Rohan, April the 21st, 3018_

"This must be the place!", Éothain called, pointing at a giant boulder covered in moss and lichen. It was surmounted by a tall oak, its branches thick and low and ahead of it, the road gently rose up the hill, cutting through a clearing between the beech and larch forest.

Just like the hunter who had rescued the little boy had said.

He raised a hand, halted Firefoot and so did his men: their only hope at finding Lothíriel was to read the tracks she and the wargs had left behind, and he didn't want to compromise them by having thirty horses trampling all over them. They approached the site carefully, mindful of any sound or sign of tension in their horses, and though he was prepared for what they were about to be confronted with – a scene he had witnessed countless times, it still caused his guts to twist up: the crushed remains of the cart on which the boy's family had been travelling lied in the middle of the road and after a night-long feast, the wargs – or maybe just wild animals, had left very little of its occupants and their horses.

Éomer stared and the hipbone of one of the mounts, picked white and clean and nicked by strong fangs, then shook his head: _Rohiril is no ordinary horse_, he reminded himself, holding tight on that last glimmer of hope that Lothíriel might have managed to outrun her pursuers and survive the ordeal she had put herself into.

In front of him, Gárwine climbed down his stallion and one careful step at a time, circled around the carriage and the carcasses: "Quite some traffic of animals. I can barely distinguish the wargs' footprints here but if it's true what they told us, that Lothíriel's mare bolted towards the forest, we might still be able to track them there". He walked away from the scene of the massacre, his eyes fixed on the ground: up and down he went, again and again, and just when he was about to lose hope that he would find something, he proved him wrong. "Got them!", he yelled, moving fast towards the forest: "Footprints of one horse and two wargs!".

"Torfrith: take a couple of men, give a proper burial to the victims and burn everything else. All the others, with me!", he ordered.

Leaving their horses behind, they followed Gárwine into the woods: Rohiril had cut straight through the forest, no doubt panicking at the sight of the wargs chasing her and ended up choosing the most rugged and dangerous path for her escape. Behind him, Éothain must have had the same thought: "Rough terrain, but she might have made it: we'll find her, Éomer", he tried to encourage him while besides him, Gram kneeled and examined closely what he judged to be old tracks of passing wolves.

"These woods haven't changed one bit: with my old man, we used to come often up here for fur trapping. I'm sure others still do, better keep our eyes open", he advised but Éomer barely heard him, his attention entirely focused on Gárwine.

They had advanced for quite some distance, when the man suddenly halted. He did the same, observed him silently as he frowned, placed a hand above one of the hoofprints left behind by Rohiril, then walked back and did the same thing again: "What is it?".

"It's strange but Rohiril's tracks change somewhere around here. Look at them: they are slightly less pronounced, more superficial. As if…".

"As if she lost weight", he finished the sentence for him: "Lothíriel might have fallen from the saddle!".

"Yes; and the wargs' footprints seem to indicate they kept chasing after her horse, so…".

"So she might have escaped them!", he concluded, looking frantically around for signs of her presence.

"Hey, take a look at this!", Éothain called, holding a broken branch in his arms, the tear in the wood still fresh: a branch robust enough to throw someone off a saddle, but not robust enough to survive unscathed the impact against a body lunched at full gallop speed. When he examined it from more up-close, Éomer found a small piece of dark blue fabric caught on its rugged surface: "This could be from her cloak, she has one of a similar colour!".

Gárwine peeked down the ravine and needed not say a word. They all climbed down after him, but each movement was a struggle: the ground kept giving way under their heavy boots and at every step, a small avalanche of rocks and stones was initiated. At one point, Éomer lost his footing, fell and landed on his back and only the providential intervention of Éothain, who grabbed him hard by his arm, prevented him from rolling down and dragging Gárwine alongside with him: "Watch out, man. You won't be of any use with a broken leg".

Éomer snapped back on his feet and though his armour made every movement difficult, the thought of Lothíriel tumbling uncontrollably all the way down pushed him to keep going in what felt like a never-ending descent. When they finally reached the bottom of the ravine, Gárwine paused and resumed studying the terrain: "She landed here", he said, pointing at a hollow in the ground, "and then managed to stand up".

Lothíriel had left behind a track as clear as the day. A track of footprints and broken wigs, but also of more teared fabric and sometimes strands of hair: "Despite the fall, she was still able to run", Gárwine noticed.

Éomer followed him, holding his breath and trying to resist the urge to dash blindly forward: _let the man do his job_, he told himself. But when Gárwine stopped, an arm raised mid-air, he shoved him aside and run, run towards that barely discernible shape of a person, lying on the ground, half-hidden behind a bush. "Lothíriel!", he called her, rushing by her side.

But all he could do when he finally reached her and laid eyes on her, was to freeze on the spot: freeze at the sight of his wife's pale face, her cheeks covered in scratches, a clot of coagulated blood on her temple, her beautiful hair spread around her, soaked in wet and dirt; freeze at the sight of her lifeless body, of her torn clothing. Freeze at the sight of a trap, locked tight around her right feet, its spikes sunk deep into the flesh of her calf.

Gárwine kneeled by her side, placed two fingers on her throat, then on her wrist: "Her pulse is weak but she's alive, Éomer. She's alive!".

It took him a moment to register the meaning of those words and when he did, he collapsed on his knees: "Lothíriel!", he called her, cupping gently her face.

But she did not respond, did not move.

"Maybe it's for the best that she's unconscious", Gárwine pondered, eyeing her trapped leg: "She needs a healer but first, we need to get rid of that thing".

"Here, let me do it", Éothain volunteered.

Éomer moved to help him, held Lothíriel's leg in position but the rusted springs of the trap wouldn't release and only after several failed attempts, did Éothain managed to open the jaws. Someone passed him a cloak and Éomer promptly wrapped it tight around his wife's leg, trying to stop bleeding: he turned around to see if she had given any sign of consciousness but she hadn't moved at all, so much that it was hard to believe she was still alive. He lifted her in his arms and with Gárwine and Gram opening the way and ensuring they wouldn't run into more surprises hidden under the leaves' covered terrain, they retreated back to their horses. With Lothíriel's head resting on his shoulder, Éomer advanced one careful step at a time and if the previous night his mind had been a whirl of thoughts - each worse than the one before, now he just felt totally, utterly emptied: hollow, as if someone had carved a whole in his chest.

But he shouldn't despair for it wasn't over yet, he told himself as they finally left the woods behind them and stepped back on the open road. He called Firefoot to him, took a blanket from his saddle and wrapped it around Lothíriel: she was pale, her lips blue. "Hang in there, Lothíriel", he whispered in her ear and with Éothain's help, he climbed into his saddle and carefully positioned her in front of him.

"She made it through the night, she'll make it until Aldburg", Éothain told him as he fixed the blanket around her legs to ensure they would keep as still as possible during the ride. "I'll take a few men and see if we can track her mare and find those wargs", he then added but all he got as a response, was a distracted nod as he already urged Firefoot forward.

* * *

The half-day ride until Aldburg seemed to take ages, eons: one arm firm around Lothíriel's thin body, he held her carefully against his chest, speaking incessantly in her hair. Most likely, that was the longest conversation they had ever had, he bitterly thought: "I was a fool, I'm sorry", he spoke softly before cursing himself.

S_ave your pathetic apologies for when she's awake, you dolt!_

At times, a moan would escape her lips: he would then check her leg, ensure it wasn't bouncing too much, and then he would see if she had awoken. But her grey eyes never opened and though unconscious, a grimace of pain was frozen on her face.

It was the early afternoon when they finally came in sight of the city and almost immediately, a familiar sound of horns rose in distance: knowing it meant they had been spotted and that Frumgar would be ready for them, Éomer just kept galloping until the hall's entrance, grateful to whoever had ensured people would keep out of his way. With Lothíriel in his arms, he stepped down his horse and at the exact same time, the hall's doors banged open and Runhild rushed out towards him. When she saw his wife, she went white as a ghost: "What happened?", she asked, but he just walked straight past her.

Explanations could wait.

Just as he had anticipated, he found Frumgar waiting for them in Lothíriel's room. His apprentice Wídleth and Ides were there too, one keeping a pot of boiling water ready, the other prepping some bandages. He lowered his wife in her bed, as gently as he possibly could: "She fell down a ravine. A steep one but was able to walk afterwards; then, she got caught in a trap", he explained.

Frumgar, who had already started to check her pulse and unlace her dress to look for wounds, stopped abruptly: "What type of trap?".

"Leghold one. Got her on her right feet: we managed to set her free and contain the bleeding, but she spent the whole night with thing biting on her calf".

Behind them, Runhild gasped.

"Wídleth: hold her leg still", Frumgar ordered and then, gently but firmly at the same time, he got rid of the cloak wrapped around Lothíriel's calf.

The last round of clothing was drenched in blood and as it was finally removed, it produced a horrific scraping sound: the wound looked awful and smelled even worse, dark blood started to gush again from of the holes left by the spikes and above them, Lothíriel's knee was swollen and her whole thigh covered in bluish and reddish marks. Staring at them, Éomer was forced to bite his tongue: he so desperately wanted to ask how bad it was, he so desperately wished Frumgar would tell him his wife was going to survive and would recover from her injuries. But he knew better: Lothíriel's life hanged on a thread and the healer needed to work in peace, not to be pestered by his pointless questions and belated concerns.

Instinctively, he reached for Lothíriel's hand. To give her strength, even in her unconscious state. Or maybe to find some for his own.

Trying not to get in the way, he waited. He waited until the gashes were cleaned and the bleeding stopped. He waited until the stitches had closed the wounds. He waited until a bandage soaked in some ointment was placed on top of them. Then, he waited until Frumgar had examined all the other wounds and bumps. He rubbed a salve on Lothíriel's knee, probed each and every of her bruises, looking for a broken bone, an internal bleeding perhaps. And there were so many of them: on her legs, on her arms, on her chest, on her back… He cleaned the scratches on her face and the slash on her forehead and with infinite patience, one drop at a time, managed to administer her a medicine.

When he was finally done, a pile of blood-soaked bandages covered the floor and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of his remedies: Ides quickly cleaned everything, then left the room; Wídleth collected all his mentor's tools and ointments and then he too, disappeared outside. With only him, Frumgar and Runhild left around Lothíriel's bed, the room grew suddenly quiet: "How bad?", he finally asked.

"Bad", Frumgar told him. After all, he had never been one to mince words: "She has no broken bones and I found no evidence of internal bleeding. The trap too miraculously missed her tibia and sunk into muscles and tendons instead and the fact that she didn't manage to break free on her own, has averted the risk of bleeding…".

"…but?".

"But infection has already set in and she's severely dehydrated and weakened after the ordeal she went through".

"Will she make it?".

Frumgar sighed and by his side, Runhild observed him with wide eyes, like her own life depended upon his next words: "I don't know, Éomer. I only placed a few stitches on the wounds: I'll have to regularly open them, purge them and then close them again. I will give her medicaments to try keep her fever down while fighting the infection, but there is only this much I can do. If she pulls through today and tonight – and I don't know if she will, maybe she'll have a chance. But for now, it's too early to say".

Éomer swallowed, reached again for Lothíriel's hand but found Runhild instead. The girl slapped his arm away and if she had looked pale earlier, she now seemed moments away from bursting into flames: "Get out of here", she hissed.

"No".

"Haven't you done enough?! Look at her!", she cried.

"I'm staying here until she awakes…".

"_If_ she awakes", she reminded him: "And even if she does awake, do you think she'll be pleased to see your mug by her side? You're the reason she lies in this bed!". Frumgar tried to stop her then, but she was a river in flood: "Some great husband you've been! For months you've avoided her like the plague, never cared to show her some sympathy, some support, and now all of a sudden you pretend to play the concerned spouse?! Too late for that!".

"I know I made mistakes…".

"You _made mistakes_? Is that your best excuse? _You_ and that father of hers, you married her off without even caring for telling her! What a surprise the _Marshall's wife_", she spat out, mimicking perfectly Meregith's thick accent "is hostile and resentful. Who would have thought, how shameful of her!".

"Runhild…".

"Do even know what she went through? Do you even know she made herself sick, like physically sick about it? Do you even know how many nights I spent watching over her?".

And she'd have continued, had it not been for her father who forced his way between the two of them: "Enough!", he yelled. "The last thing Lothíriel needs is for the two of you to make a scene! Éomer, you will stay here and warn me immediately if something changes in her condition and you", he said, raising a hand to shut his daughter up before she could ger a word out of her mouth, "_you_ are feverish yourself and will go to bed: now, you hear me?". Runhild made for protesting, but Frumgar took her by her shoulders, his voice soft: "I know you're worried, but you've done all you could and I'm sure Lothíriel would want you to care for yourself. Éomer will watch over her and yes, I know mistakes were done: but _they_ got themselves into this situation and only _they_", he said glancing towards him, "can get themselves out of it. Besides, Lothíriel wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for him. He managed to find her and brought her back to us: does that count to nothing? Don't you think he deserves at least the chance to apologize, should Lothíriel awake?".

Runhild looked away, sniffed a few times and after fear and after anger, came also her moment of breakdown: she threw her arms around her father's neck, sobbing uncontrollably and mumbling something unintelligible against his chest. "I know, I know", he soothed her as he slowly walked her out of the room. Before the door locked behind them, she threw one last glance at his wife, then at him.

And then, he was alone.

He circled around Lothíriel's bed and stood for a while by her side, unsure what to do with himself: Runhild was right that he had avoided her, that he had postponed dealing with her like she was merely more than a chore that had befallen him. But on one thing she was wrong: he did know how difficult it had been for her. Just, he had never been able to confront her about it, he had never really understood how to approach her, how to speak to her so that he could make things better. And then he had done the worse thing of all: he had lost his temper in front of her, showed her his worse side. A side nobody liked – him least of all: but while those who knew him well had learned to expect such outburst from him and knew how to deal with them, how could Lothíriel?

Running away had been a stupid, reckless idea. But how desperate she must have been to go on such a suicide mission rather than staying by his side?

Éomer got rid of his chest plate, then sat by her desk: there was a wooden box, badly scratched and with its lid missing, holding some letters and by its side, more papers were neatly arranged together. He flipped through them and to his surprise, he found himself staring at a multitude of charcoal sketches. There were dozens of them: some simple and made only of a few strokes, others way more elaborate. The subjects were often birds: owls, crows, magpies, red kites. The last ones especially recurred over and over again and with an increased level of details: but while the shape of their angled wings and forked tail had been masterfully outlined, the pattern on their feathers was somewhat off and changed slightly at each attempt, like she had been struggling to get it right. There were also many drawings of a cat – always the same one, black and wait and with a short and crooked tail, and even a couple of Runhild herself: in one she stood, hands on her hips, a smug expression on her face, while another was a close-up of her smiley, freckled face. The last illustration was the portrait of an elderly woman sitting by a tall window and with the same large cat sleeping in her lap. It was more detailed than the other drawings: the furniture, the clothing, the sea landscape, the fading afternoon light. All had been mindfully laid out and it surely must have taken a long time to finish it. On the bottom corner, partially overlapping with the gown of the old woman, were four simple letters.

Home.

Éomer brushed his fingers on them, smudging irremediably their edges: was it too late? Even if Lothíriel survived, was it too late to save their marriage? He desperately wished to make things right, he desperately wished he could prove himself a better husband, but what if she did not care for it anymore? What if they had gone too far and there was no fixing? What if Lothíriel awoke only to ask him to let her go?

He sighed, frustrated and angry at the same time but also knowing that if that was the case, then there was only one thing he could do: so he re-arranged the papers together, mindful to keep the last portrait at the top, where he could see it; and then, he searched for a blank parchment and started writing.

* * *

"Éomer?", someone called him.

He opened his eyes and the moment he realized he had fallen asleep, he snapped up: "Did something happen? Did she awake?".

But Frumgar was quick to shut down his hopes: "No, but I need to change her bandages and you should go get some rest".

"I'm fine, I was just…resting my eyes".

"Yes, that's called sleeping and you can't watch over your wife while you are dozing off. So, let me tell you again: go get some rest and come back later. Meanwhile, I'll stay with her".

Éomer looked outside: it was dark, the sun had set since a few hours already and after having slept on a chair, partially armoured to boot, he felt totally wracked. Frumgar was right that he would be of no use in such condition: "You will call me if something happens?".

"I will. Now go!".

He made for leaving bur first, he moved closer to the bed: Lothíriel's breath was ragged, sweat trickled down her forehead but when he brushed her cheek, her skin felt much cooler. Her fever must have gone down which, he hoped, was a good sign: "I'll be back in a few hours", he promised her, then carefully tiptoed outside of the room, as if afraid the sound of his steps might have awoken her.

He walked into the corridor and…almost tripped and fell on something! No, not something but rather someone, he realized as he saw Éothain sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, looking like he too had been _resting his eyes_: "When did you come back?".

"Not long ago. How is she?".

"I don't know", he admitted, rubbing tiredly his eyes: "She's alive but Frumgar is not sure whether she'll make it".

"She will".

"She…she had a high fever and her wound is badly inf…".

"She's a fighter", Éothain cut him short. Then, seeing the expression on his face, he smiled: "I give you that she did something stupid to start with. But Éomer, she came across two wargs: awful beasts for those who are familiar with them, imagine for someone like her. And yet instead of turning around and run back where she came from, she tried to distract them just so a boy she had never seen before could have a chance at surviving. She rolled down a ravine that would have killed the most and then just stood up and rushed back towards the clearing. And you know why she did it? To find that boy, of course! She got caught in a trap and survived a whole night just like that, without a fire or anything to keep her warm, completely alone and terribly wounded. She may not look like it, but I'll be damned if that wife of yours doesn't have the spirit of a warrior!".

Éomer stared at him, wishing desperately he could absorb even a little pinch of his friend's optimism. "Don't lose hope", Éothain told him, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

"I'm trying", he promised, his voice shaky. "What of you? Did you find Lothíriel's mare?".

"We found what was left of her, which was not much".

"She didn't make it?".

"No", Éothain said, shaking ruefully his head: "She reached the edge of the woods and kept going for a while. Maybe she tired up and the wargs caught up with her, or maybe she encountered more of them: there were a lot of tracks, a bit too many for only two of them but alas, Gárwine is the expert and he was not there to confirm what happened. In any case, it's a good thing Lothíriel was thrown off the saddle: ironically, that branch might have just saved her life", he explained. Then, he reached for his pocket, pulled something out of it: "I found this nearby Rohiril's remains. It was inside what was left of her satchel: it must have been important if Lothíriel decided to bring it with her and maybe", he said as he passed him a silver necklace, "it'll make her happy to get it back when she awakes".

Éomer looked at it and he had to admit he had never seen a more beautiful, precious creation: three dark blue sapphires hanged on a chain that, he realized now, was not made of silver but rather white gold and embedded with more precious stones. "She must have brought it with her from Dol Amroth", he guessed.

"Probably. I tried my best to clean it, but there might still be some dirt…".

"Thank you, Éothain. For this and well…for everything else too", he suddenly told him, pulling him into a tight embrace: things between them had been shaky during those past few weeks, but the man was his best friend and to have his support in those dark hours meant the world to him.

With his wife's necklace secured in one hand, he made for leaving but was almost immediately stopped: "Wait!", Éothain called him back, his eyes fixed on the ground like he was struggling to find the right words to say.

Something so deeply unusual for him.

"I know I've never been a supporter of this marriage of yours and I know I've lost no opportunity to remind you about it. But what I said earlier about Lothíriel, that she's a warrior and a fighter: I truly think so and I'm not saying it just for the sake it. Meregith…I don't know what took her to behave that way, but what she did is inexcusable and I want you to know that had I been in her place, I'd have never…".

"I know", he reassured him and then, without saying a further word, headed for the stairs. But instead of climbing up towards his room, he went down, then crossed the empty hall and kept going until he had passed the kitchens and reached the staff's wing. Once there, he gave the necklace in his hand one last look, then knocked on the door.

A sound of rustling sheets came from the other side and then, a sleepy voice: "Yes?".

"It's me. Can I come in?".

"Éomer?", Meregith called before opening the door and peeking out.

"Can I come in?".

"Of course!", she welcomed him with a smile that was equally warm and inappropriate at such time.

He waited until she had draped a robe around her shoulder, then walked in and standing in front of the window, his to back to her, he glanced outside at the deserted streets.

He waited.

And then he waited some more.

"Lothíriel might die. Are you not going to ask me how is she doing? Will you not even pretend you care whether she lives or dies?".

"How can you say such thing, of course I care…".

"You care that she leaves this place and whether she does it on her own legs or lying in a casket, that does not interest you", he stated, his voice flat.

"That's not true. I don't know what Runhild told you, but…".

"She told me you refused to search for her and would have rather condemned her to certain death than rescue her. Strange enough, Eofor supported her claim. Was he lying too? Is this a plot against you? Is that what you are saying?", he pressed her: calm at first, but for each further word his voice rose and by the end of the sentence, he was shouting to her face.

"Your wife is no child, Éomer: most women are mothers by her age and if she takes a decision to leave, then I don't see why I shouldn't respect it".

"Ah, of course!", he laughed, throwing his arms in the air: "You've never respected anything that concerned her until now, but you see it fit to start the moment she tries to run off. How convenient!".

"_I_ didn't respect _her_?", she echoed him, a hand on her chest, her eyes wide like he had just told her the most ridiculous thing ever: "And what of her respect, eh? She despises me – us!, and loses no chance to remind me, yet you expect me to mollycoddle her and act as if I was her wet-nurse! You expect me to put up with that terrible attitude of her and pretend what? That I like her just because of her title? That's not who I am, Éomer: I say things like they are and your wife is spoiled, obnoxious and disagreeable. However, that does not mean I _disrespected_ her: she never lacked for anything since the moment she arrived and was always allowed to do as she pleased!".

Éomer took a step back and looked at her up and down: "Bema, I can't even tell whether it's me you are lying to, or yourself instead".

"I am lying to no one. Least of all to you!", she declared.

And she spoke with such conviction, that Éomer felt at loss: he hadn't expected her to fall on her knees and beg for his forgiveness, but that she would refuse to acknowledge any responsibility, that she wouldn't even try to justify her actions, that she'd rather put all the blame on Lothíriel, Runhild or whoever else came to her mind, _that_ went far beyond anything he had anticipated from that discussion. It was as if Meregith's perception of anything even remotely related to his wife was completely altered, her sense of judgment impaired. But at the same time, hers wasn't the intent of a madwoman for there was premeditation, malice even in her actions: "I couldn't believe it, you know? When I was first told of you and Lothíriel, when the rumours of your continuous fights reached my ears, I couldn't believe it. But I knew there was some truth to them and so I started keeping my eyes open, I started watching closely any interaction you had with Lothíriel. And you know what I saw, Meregith?".

"No".

"Not a damn thing!", he yelled.

"Then why are you angry?".

"Because I couldn't quite understand it at first, but now I see it: you pretend, Meregith. Whenever I'm around, you pretend to be your usual self, you pretend to behave with Lothíriel like it is expected of you. But the moment I leave, the moment I turn my back, you are ready to do anything that would ger her out of your way! Including getting her killed!".

"I did not force her to leave".

"No, that is my burden. But in the name of your blind hatred for her, you were ready to scarify her life. Her life, Meregith! And you did it without even thinking about the consequences of your actions!".

"I did think about them".

"Did you?", he asked, advancing menacingly towards her: "Did you think I would have _never_ wanted her out there on her own? Did you think I would have _never_ wanted her dead? Did you think I would have _never_ wanted her gone? Did you think there was _nothing_ I wanted more but for our marriage to work? And even if you did not care about all of that, about me and her: did you think about the consequences for Rohan? What do you think will happen if she dies? She's the nephew of Gondor's most powerful man and the daughter of the second one: should Lothíriel die, how do you think her family will react?".

"If she dies it will be as a consequence of her own actions, not ours. And besides, we don't need Gondor: we can manage on our…".

"It's not her fault!", he finally cried, loud enough for the entire hall to hear him: "Dawyn's death it's not her fault!".

And there seemed to be a reaction: a flash in the old housekeeper's eyes, a tremor.

"Dunlendings killed her but if you need someone else to blame, if you need someone towards whom you direct your anger and despair, then let it be me!". Meregith turned around in a futile attempt to mask her tears, but he had none of it: "Dawyn didn't leave Aldburg because of Lothíriel's arrival. Dawyn left Aldburg because I could never give her what she wanted, because I could never love her back the same way she loved me".

She shook her head, pushed him away: "You don't know that".

"I don't know my own feelings?".

"You were never interested in settling down and with the kind of life you live, with what happened to your parents…no one could blame you for that. But somewhen things would have changed, Éomer. Somewhen you'd have realized there is more to this life than slaying orcs and keeping alive, you'd have realized you needed more, you needed someone…".

"And you think I'd have then suddenly fallen in love with the girl I grew up with?".

"She loved you and she'd have made you a wonderful wife".

"She'd have made a wonderful wife, but not to me Meregith. She'd have never been happy by my side, by the side of a man who did not reciprocate her feelings. Dawyn deserved better than a loveless marriage", he spoke and even if just for a moment, she seemed gone: the resentful, rancorous woman seemed gone and Meregith looked like she was back to her usual caring - albeit stern, self.

"And what of this marriage you got instead? Is it any better? Is it any less loveless?", she asked him and though she was crying, though tears streamed down her cheeks and her body trembled with the pain of a loss she'd never come to terms with, there was in her voice just enough bitter resentment, just enough ill-concealed loathing that made him wonder if their discussion had managed to accomplish anything at all.

"No, but it's not hopeless. Not for me at least", he said, then took a step back from her. "I don't know what will happen: maybe Lothíriel will die and it will all be over - for her and probably for me as well. Or maybe she'll live, maybe she'll awake and demand to be sent back to Gondor – and after what happened, how could I ever refuse her that? But if by Bema's grace she'll live and decide to stay here, by my side, then I'll be damned if I won't make _everything_ in my power to give her the life she deserves".

Meregith straighten her back, wiped off her tears with the sleeve of her gown: "I understand, Éomer".

"So you say but after everything that has happened, I'm not sure you do".

"I'm sorry", she just mumbled, sobbing and covering her face with her hands.

But he did not move, did not try to console her: "I feel like I can barely recognize you these days", he admitted, "but for the sake of how long you've been part of this hall and of my family, I'll give a chance to redeem yourself".

Meregith's head snapped up then and she looked at him with wide, shocked eyes. Like she hadn't expected him to give her a second chance. Or maybe like she hadn't expected him to be considering the idea of removing her from the hall altogether. In all honesty, he could not say.

"I'll always be by your side, Éomer. You're like a son to me and there's nothing I wish you more in this life than happiness".

"Then prove it. But know this: I'm giving you a second chance, but I'm not doing it blindly. Don't expect me to sit back and just hope you'll change attitude towards my wife: I'll have my eyes on you and rest assured that from now on, if you as much as look at Lothíriel the wrong way, I'll be the first one to know. And if I'll _ever_ suspect you are back at plotting against her or simply trying to make her life miserable, then you have my word that I will have you removed from this hall without a second thought. Do you understand?".

* * *

**Author's notes**

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: indeed they have. Questionable decision on Éomer's side, but we'll see what it will bring. At least he lost no further time at dealing with her and is now standing firmly his ground. Just know that each review brings me joy so we're even J

_Beancdn_: had she managed to catch up with the merchants, she might have been reasonably safe. But risking a day's ride on your own in a land you know nothing of, was utterly unconscious. If anything, Éomer seems to have cut the chase and is now taking the matter in his own hands without further hesitating! Stay safe too!

_Katia0203_: yes, the poor boy managed to survive and his fate will be cleared up in the next chapters. Now you make me doubt _ravine_ was the right English word, but what I meant is not like a cliff with several feet of smooth vertical rock. More like a very steep, rugged terrain, the type of which animals can walk up and down without too much problem. As per Meregith, at least now Éomer knows! Stay safe too!

_AmandaBaker852_: child, yes. Lothíriel, we will see!

_BlueRevolution_: glad you liked it!

_Catspector_: wow, quite an accurate analysis! J If there's any good to come out of all of this mess, then it's in the fact that Meregith's hatred for Lothíriel is now clear to everybody and most importantly to Éomer. The circumstances of how exactly he and his men came to know about what had happened, will be cleared up in the next chapters and yes, Meregith's actions were obviously short-sighted and she is clearly out of her mind. Maybe Éomer's decision is questionable, but I suppose it can be hard to ban from your life someone who's basically family for you. At least he knows he's risking and will keep his eyes open!

_rossui_: thank you! Yes, lot of irons in the fire on all sides and yes, a quick update! :)

_tgo62: _I know, I was somewhat cruel to her! No, she didn't really _see _Runhild, but the reassuring face of her best friend just came to her mind as she slipped into unconsciousness…

_pineapple-pancake_: so happy to hear you're liking it! Yes, all that could go wrong went even worse for Lothíriel. As mentioned, the boy survived and was rescued by a hunter (who, where, how... we'll see in the next chapters) and his witness – plus a good tracker (I can barely follow my own footprints in fresh snow, but I am told they can do miracles! :) ), put Éomer and his men on the right way to find her. Still, she had to spend the whole night and part of the following morning lying there. As Éothain said, she may not look like a warrior but she definitely has the spirit of one!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Aldburg, April the 24th, 3018_

Éomer snapped the book shut and leant back in his chair, his legs stretched in front of him: when he had recommended _Twilight Tales_ to Lothíriel, he hadn't quite remembered just how melancholic and gloomy those poems were. If he had, he'd have surely opted for a little lighter and more cheerful reading.

He placed the book back on the nightstand, readjusted the bookmark where he had found it: page twenty-seven, _Sonnet of Desolation_, author unknown.

Rather fitting, he had to admit.

Reaching out for Lothíriel, he held her hand for a moment, studied carefully her features but nothing had changed since the last time he had checked on her - which was at best only a few minutes earlier: she still lied motionless in her bed - same as she had done for the past three days, and no matter how many times he called her name, no matter how many hours he spent talking to her, she would show no sign of regaining consciousness whatsoever. _Are you even still in there, _he couldn't help but wondering as he took in the sight of her pale, gaunt cheeks: truth was, his wife was withering in front of his very own eyes and yet there was absolutely nothing he could do for her, aside from waiting and hoping she'd find in herself the strength to awaken from the slumber to which she had succumbed.

Seeing tiny drops of sweat forming on her forehead, Éomer pulled her woollen blanket a little lower, then stood and opened the window to refresh the stale air. It was such a perfect spring day: the sun was warm but not too much, the cornflowers were already blooming and swallows had arrived in the city since a few days. Observing them as they flew erratically from building to building, Éomer wondered if Lothíriel had seen them: they were not among the birds she had portraited, so maybe she had missed them.

Caught in a moment of sudden creativity, he walked to her desk, grabbed paper and charcoal and tried sketching one of them: he used to be good at it, at least when he was younger. But he had always preferred landscapes to animated subjects and after years of no practice, his drawing skills resulted in something quite disappointing and not even remotely as nice and vivid as his wife's creations.

He sighed, crumpled the paper and tossed it away: his hands were callous and scarred, his skin rough. The hands of a warrior, definitely not the ones of an artist.

Outside of the room, the sound of approaching steps and hushed whispers told him it was already noon and Frumgar had arrived to check on Lothíriel's wounds and relieve him for a few hours from his watch. Not that he needed it – quite the contrary in fact, but the healer had given him little choice; besides, he knew Runhild too wished to spend some time with his wife and doubted she'd have appreciated his presence in the room with her. The girl obviously hated him and really, he could not blame her for it: for the past few months, she had done with Lothíriel what he could not – did not want to do. She had spent all her time with her, supported her, helped her adjusting to life in Rohan and even started teaching her their language. And when the hour of need had come, it had been her who hadn't hesitated to jump in her saddle and ride for a half-day just to find him and warn him about what had happened.

The debt he had with her was one he was never going to repay but someday, he ought at least to thank her for what she had done. Just, not yet: not until he knew if his actions had costed Lothíriel her life or whether instead she was going to survive his stupidity.

Frumgar silently unlaced the upper part of Lothíriel's gown, then checked the status of the angry swollen hematoma that the impact with the branch had left on her chest. Her skin was bluish, verging to green in some areas and under the patches of broken capillaries, Éomer could easily count her ribs, follow them until they joined the breastbone in the middle: "She seems so emaciated", he observed.

"She's losing weight".

"Isn't there anything we can do?".

"I'm keeping her hydrated and as well-fed as possible given her unconscious state, but my hands are tied: unless she awakes, there's nothing I can do apart from slowing down the deterioration in her condition. Speaking of which, there's something else you should know".

Éomer dipped a cloth is a basin filled with fresh water, then squeezed it thoroughly and gently passed it on Lothíriel's neck: "What is it?".

"The wound on her leg".

His head snapped up: "I thought you said the infection was improving".

"It is. She hasn't had any fever in over a day and the wound itself looks much better, so much that I don't see it needing any further purging".

"Then what's wrong with it?".

"Lothíriel was very lucky that the trap missed her bone, for that might have caused much more extensive damage. Nevertheless, the spikes and the following infection have severely compromised her calf muscle, to the point I don't think it will ever fully recover".

"You mean she won't be able to walk ever again?".

"She'll walk, but she might likely limp for the rest of her life and even she doesn't, her leg won't be able to sustain prolonged efforts anymore: a little run or a long walk, and it will probably give out and start aching once again".

Éomer took a deep breath, tried to calm down: a slight limp sounded like such an inconsequential thing when he didn't even know if Lothíriel was going to survive. Yet it bothered him, it bothered him to the point he wished he could throw a punch in the wall: "I understand", he just said, then strode towards the door so he could bring his foul mood elsewhere.

"You'll be back for supper, yes?", Frumgar called him.

"Of course. If you need me, I'll be at Gárwine and then at Éothain's place".

Outside of the hall, it was just another normal day: the streets were busy with the usual coming and going, Cadda was walking around and looking for someone he could bother with his meaningless chatter and a delivery of grain had just arrived from the countryside. For everybody, life seemed to be going on as usual and it was only him and a few others that were left behind, stuck in a nightmare with no end in sight. As irrational as it was, Éomer felt anger mounting inside him and with his fists clenched and his teeth gritted, he climbed down the stairs two steps at a time. At the bottom, someone had the misguided idea to stop him: "My Lord?", Hánild called him.

He barely grunted in response, then noticed the woman was holding something in front of him. A pretty shawl in the customary Rohirric green, with two golden prancing horses – one per corner, sewed along its hem: "I'm sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to give you this. A token of gratitude for your wife and for what she did for Dúnor. The boy would be dead if it wasn't for her and I want you to know we very pray Oromë every day for her recovery".

Éomer stared stupidly at the gift in his hands, Hánild's words leaving him for some reason momentarily speechless: "Thank you", he finally managed to say. "How is he doing? I tried to visit him the other day, but his grandparents told me he was sleeping and didn't want to disturb him…".

"Yes, he can't sleep at night the poor child: wakes up every now and then, screaming and crying, and at day he never speaks, barely eats anything at all…I brought him some of his favourite pies yesterday, baked them especially for him, but he didn't so much as look at them. He survived those beasts almost unscathed in the body, but…".

"I know", Éomer stopped her, placing a hand on her arm. He himself remembered all too well the day his father's lifeless body was brought back to Aldburg: he remembered the wounds, he remembered the blood, he remembered the smell even of that day. He knew Dúnor was never going to forget what he saw, was never going to forget the horrible death of his parents; but he also knew he was a strong boy: after escaping the massacre, he had walked all alone for miles until finally being rescued and though in a state of shock, he had reported with remarkably precise details what had happened. Where the wargs had come from, how many of them, in which direction had his mysterious saviour disappeared.

It was true that had it not been for Lothíriel, the boy would be dead. But at the same time, had it not been for him and his help, then Lothíriel would have surely been dead too.

Hánild shook her head, waved a hand like all her worries were nothing short of ridiculous: "He's alive, that's all that matters", she told him with a forced smile before hurrying up the stairs, her eyes misty.

Left standing alone with the shawl in his hands, Éomer felt his stupid anger fade away only to be replaced by an all-consuming and overly familiar sense of unease. The type that grips at your guts and twist them up; the type that leaves no space for any other emotion, any other sensation; the type that makes you want to curl up in a ball until your worries have eaten you from the inside. For a moment, he even considered the idea of retracing his steps and seeking shelter in his study or perhaps in his mother's solar, but eventually changed his mind: he forced himself down the road, reached Gárwine's house and once there, he felt shamelessly relieved at finding the man waiting for him all alone, with Birthwyn and Estwyn nowhere to be seen.

He had no stomach for people those days.

The old rider welcomed him with a pat on his shoulder and a stretched smile, then showed him to the table: "There's fresh soup and some meat leftovers. Will that suit you?".

"Yes, of course".

Éomer waited until he too had taken a seat, then dipped a spoon in the bowl in front of him: Birthwyn had enriched her buttermilk soup with potatoes and green beans and just like everything coming out of her kitchen, it tasted delicious. The meat too, though cold and a little hardened, was just as good and before he even knew it, Éomer had silently devoured his portion: "I'll remember to tell my wife you appreciated her cooking skills", Gárwine teased him.

His mood not really allowing for jests, Éomer chose to ignore his comment: "Thanks for having me. I'd have invited you to my study, but I thought it would do me good to leave the hall even if just for a couple of hours".

"Please, Éomer: you owe me no explanation. Is someone with Lothíriel?".

"Frumgar: he'll tend to her wounds, change her into something clean, then Runhild will keep her company until I'm back".

"No sign of improvement in her condition?".

"No", he said, shaking his head and trying to swallow his fears that if Lothíriel didn't awake any time soon, then all he could do was watching her slowly dying off.

Sensing his mood, Gárwine wisely chose not to press the topic any further and changed subject instead: "You said you wanted to ask me something?".

"Yes, yes: something of the utmost important", he solemnly declared.

Gárwine frowned, like he was already smelling bad news ahead of him: "Bema, you are worrying me. C'mon then, ask away: you know you can count on me!".

Éomer pushed his bowl away, then took a deep a breath: "I've been thinking a lot about it and I beg you not to take this the wrong way", he started saying, to which Gárwine's frown deepened even further. "As a member of my Éored, you're quite honestly invaluable and there's no one with a set of skills to match yours. You're just as valid as any Éothain with a sword in hand, no one read tracks better than you – as you just recently demonstrated, and while many of us have the tendency to act first, think then, you are the opposite. You're a keen observer, you see and hear things that go unnoticed to the most, you're good at reading people…".

"…why do I feel there's a _but_ coming after all these praises?".

"There's no _but_. Plain and simple: despite your skills as a rider, you stand to serve me much better here in Aldburg than risking your neck on some orc's hunt".

Gárwine froze, his mouth gaping: "Are you…removing me from your Éored?".

"That's what I meant when I asked you not to take this the wrong way", Éomer groaned, rubbing his face: "I am often away, Gárwine. Too often and I _can't_, I just _can't_ ride away unless I know the city, its people and my wife are in good hands: those hands used to be Meregith's ones, but now…".

"Now you don't trust her anymore".

"How could I?", he asked, opening his arms.

"Then why is she still here? Why haven't you dismissed her after what she did?".

"Because she wasn't always like that, Gárwine. Because aside from my sister - who was anyway too young back then, I feel like she's the last living connection I have with the days before my parents' death. The last one with whom I can talk about it, the last one who remembers how life was back then: with them, between those very same walls. She's there in my happy memories and she's there in my sad ones and I just couldn't bring myself to dismiss her without giving her a chance to prove she can change", he admitted, feeling a sudden lump in his throat.

On the other side of the table, Gárwine stared at him unfazed: "I understand how you feel, but I think you're making a mistake. A big, fat mistake".

"Then I'll be ready to deal with it before it's too late".

"Ready? How?".

"To begin with, I spoke with each and every member of the staff: maids, cook, pantlers, guards, errand boys…soon I'll be speaking to the pillars too! I made clear – _very_ clear, that I expect the general attitude towards my wife to change and that I want each of them to keep their eyes open: should Meregith – or anybody else for the matter, start antagonizing her again, then I want to be informed immediately. Whoever fails to do so, whoever covers up for her, will face dire consequences. And as per Meregith herself…".

"You don't want her to be in charge anymore".

"Warm meals and clean linens: that's all she'll be in charge of from now on!", he hissed. "She'll be Aldburg's housekeeper but will have no further power beyond that. Which brings me back to why I came here in the first place: I need someone to run this place when I'm away. Someone I can trust not only with the welfare of the city, but also with the safety and well-being of my wife. Someone like you".

Gárwine stood, paced back and forth a couple of times, then came to a halt in front of his armour stand: "This is…unexpected".

"I understand. And you don't need to give me an answer right now, but…".

"Of course I'll do it".

"You will?".

"Don't get me wrong, Éomer: I already regret hanging up my sword for good. I've been a rider of Rohan for over thirty years now and that's not something you cease to be from one day to the other. But I know I'm getting old, I know Birthwyn would like to have me more often around here and I myself would love to spend more time with my grandson", he admitted, his voice deep, sad almost. But when he turned, there was a tiny smile on his lips: "You haven't lost hope".

Éomer stood, collected their bowls and returned them to the stove.

"You plan for when Lothíriel awakes. You plan for the life that will follow", Gárwine insisted.

"Maybe I'm just a fool".

"You are many things Éomer, but a fool is not one of them. Besides – and brace yourself because I won't admit this _ever_ again, I agree with Éothain and I also think Lothíriel will recover".

Éomer chuckled thinking of the abrupt change in his best friend's attitude: "Before he used to call her with all the possible disparaging nicknames. Now, she has been upgraded overnight to _warrior Princess_".

"High time he quitted whining about her!".

"Yes, I suppose you are right. Speaking of which: I need our dear friend to ride to Edoras as soon as possible, so I shall better go find him before he ends up totally wasted in some cheap tavern and with a hangover to last him an entire sennight".

"Why to Edoras, if I may ask?".

"Because _I_ am supposed to be there in a few days".

"What for?".

"A council with our beloved chief advisor, naturally. It was planned weeks ago, but there's no way I can leave now. I'll send Éothain in my place", he explained, to which Gárwine almost choked and turned purple. "So that he can tell Éowyn what happened", he hurried to clarify: "Hopefully, she'll find a way to postpone the meeting without Grima getting too suspicious".

"You don't want him to know what happened?".

"He'll find it out, sooner or later. But for now, I don't want to deal with it: not until Lothíriel awakes or …".

"Not until Lothíriel awakes", Gárwine stopped him. "Sounds like a good plan. And Éomer?".

"Hm?".

"I know I'm not exactly bouncing off the walls and may need a couple of days to digest what you just told me, but know this: it was an honour to serve in your Éored, it will be an honour to serve as your deputy here".

* * *

That night, something startled Éomer awake: a nightmare, he realized – and an awful one at that.

He swung his legs down the cot and rubbed his eyes, but the image of Lothíriel lying on a blood-soaked bed and with her right leg from her knee downwards completely missing, was a hard one to forget.

He stood, walked up to her, searched for the reassuring sight of her chest heaving rhythmically up and down, then collapsed on a chair: with dawn still hours away and knowing he would not be getting any more sleep that night, Éomer briefly entertained the idea of reading something but then and without even realizing it, he started dozing off.

It was in that strange place between sleep and wakefulness, where boundaries are blurred and you can never be sure if what you are seeing is real or not, that he first realized something had changed. He twisted his head up, marvelled at the sight of Lothíriel shifting in her bed like she had never done before but for the longest time, he did nothing: worried that even the slightest movement might have caused him to awake from the first decent dream he had had in days – if not weeks, he kept still, barely breathed at all. He observed her silently as she slowly regained consciousness and it was only when her eyes - those beautiful bottomless grey pools with just a tinge of green that were so unique of her, gazed back at him, that he felt a sudden jolt.

He jumped to his feet, covered the distance between them in one long leap, his knees wobbling: "Lothíriel?", he called her.

She looked confused at him, her eyes unfocused, her pupils dilated in an abnormal way: "You're in Aldburg, Lothíriel". She frowned like his words made no sense: "We found you in the woods. You've been unconscious for almost four days", he tried to explain, stroking gently her cheek.

_Bema, this better not be a dream!_

Lothíriel's eyes darted around the room, lingered on the sill on which she had spent so many hours and slowly, she seemed to recognize the place, recognize him. She lied quietly for a moment but then, as if suddenly remembering something important, she turned towards him, opened her mouth like she wanted to say something but little more than a strangled whimper came out of it. She grabbed him by his wrist then and there was an urgency, a plea almost in her eyes: "Easy, easy", he tried to calm her down, but all he managed to accomplish was to make her panic even more.

In a state of obviously growing agitation, Lothíriel started tossing around and went as far as trying to pull herself up, only to fail miserably and fall back onto the pillow, her face a mask of pain. Concerned she would end up hurting herself, Éomer pinned her down and cupped her face with one hand: he waited until her quivering eyes were looking straight back at him, silenced an attempt at speaking with a finger on her lips and then, he took one loud deep breath. Then he took a second one. And a third one until finally, Lothíriel seemed to understand and nodding imperceptibly, she started following his lead.

In and out. In and out.

He continued until she had calmed down and then, without ever removing his eyes from hers, he snatched a cup of water from the nightstand and holding her by the nape of her neck, helped her drinking some.

"Better?", he asked after she had taken a few sips.

Another little nod.

"Good. Can you speak now?".

She swallowed, licked her lips: "Y-yes", she confirmed, her voice so hoarse she barely sounded like herself. She paused like she was trying to collect the strength needed to continue, then took one shaky breath: "The woods…the woods where you found me…", she managed to say. "…there was…a child. Did you…".

"Did we find him?", Éomer finished the sentence for her, smiling – laughing almost! Foolish, silly girl! Still thinking about him after all she had been through! "We did: his name is Dúnor and he's here in Aldburg, safe and sound".

"...safe?".

"Safe", he repeated, to which she exhaled and sunk deeper into the mattress, visibly relieved.

A dumb smile still plastered on his face, Éomer brushed her hair on one side, adjusted the pillow under her head, then fixed the blanket around her legs: he was aware his attentions were most likely unwanted and his presence there unwelcomed, but it couldn't be helped. After days of anxious waiting, after struggling not to lose hope in spite of the mess he had created, after life as a whole had been put on a hold around that bed, to see her finally awake was almost too much. A part of him remained firmly convinced that was all but a dream and in a foolish attempt to silence it, he just kept walking in circles around the bed, smoothing the sheets and doing other utterly useless things until inevitably, the weight of the recent events came down crushing on them.

Her whole body now shaking like a leaf, Lothíriel stared at the ceiling above her and in her eyes, Éomer recognized a terror he had seen far too many times: "W-what were they?", she asked, her hands clutching desperately at the fabric of her nightgown.

He sat beside her, made for taking her hands but she pulled them away instead, slammed her palms on her eyes like she desperately wished to unsee.

"Wargs".

"Wargs?".

"Orcs' hounds, steeds at times".

Her nails digging into the skin of her forehead, Lothíriel gasped for air: "Those horses…and those people, those poor people! They had been…they had been…", she only managed to say before being overcome by an uncontrollable sobbing and Bema help him if stepping with his both feet into one of those traps wouldn't have been a thousand times better than seeing her that way!

But he couldn't: he couldn't change what had been and he knew there were no words in the whole Middle Earth could ease the way she felt. So, he did the only thing in his power: he took her in his arms, cradled her gently against his chest and waited. Waited until her tears had run dry, waited until her body had stopped shaking, waited until what little energy she possessed had been totally depleted. And even after that, when she went limp in his arms and her uneven breath and occasional hiccups were the only signs of consciousness, he kept holding on her, kept rocking her back and forth.

All too aware of his own tears, Éomer would have gladly kept her where she was for the rest of the night but when her hands started pushing feebly against his chest, he did not try to hold her back: Lothíriel stared at him with swollen red eyes, frowned at the sight of his wet cheeks. "Is _that_ what you always see?", she asked, her voice so low he could barely hear her.

"What I always see?".

"When you ride away with your men in tow, when you come back tired and exhausted in the middle of the night. Is _that_ what you always see out there?".

Taken aback, Éomer did not know what to say: "No, not always", he lied at first. But he could feel her eyes boring into him and really, what was the point of sugar-coating when she had seen for herself what could happen on those plains? "Often", he admitted.

"How? How do you do it? How do you live with what you see?", she asked, her hands closed in tight fists like she was trying very hard not start sobbing all over again.

Her question came unexpected and for some reason, Éomer felt the urge to put some distance between him and her piercing gaze: he slid a little further down the bed and resting with his arms on his knees, he stared intently at his bare feet. How? How did he live with all the horrors he had witnessed throughout the years? Did he have a magic formula? One to forget everything and live happily ever after no matter what you have seen, no matter what you have done? "I don't know. Maybe…maybe I've just grown used to it".

He regretted his words the moment they left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back and when he finally dared looking up, Éomer found Lothíriel staring at him with a strange, painful look in her eyes: "I'm sorry, Lothíriel. I'm sorry for having been one pitiful husband and I'm sorry for what I told you that day. I was angry and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that is no excuse. What I said was unfair and…".

"Why?".

"Why what?".

"Why were you so angry?".

Éomer sighed, tossed his head backwards: "Something happened…".

"What happened?", she pressed him and he knew she would not give up, she would not settle for a half-true explanation of what had occurred that day.

"There's this place…_was_ actually, there _was_ this place. It was called the Holbeck farm, maybe you've heard of it".

"Holbeck like the cheese?".

"Yes, it's where they used to make it. Nice place, nestled in the hills and with vast pastures surrounding it on all sides. Starting from last autumn, we suffered several attacks and ambushes in the region, so I decided to have Cenulf and his family - who were living there at the time, relocated to a nearby village: one where they would not be alone, one where they could protect themselves should the enemy strike. But there were…troubles: troubles between Cenulf and the local ealdormen. I don't even know what happened exactly, all I know is that Cenulf decided to move back to his farm and that I was not informed of it until that morning, when it was already too late to do anything".

"He was killed?", Lothíriel asked, holding her breath like she still hoped for his story to have an outcome different from the obvious one.

"Yes".

"His family too?".

"Yes, his wife and three children were killed too: the oldest was ten years old, the youngest only four. All I could do for them, was pursuing their attackers and dispose of them".

For a long time, Lothíriel remained silent, her gaze fixed on an undefined point on the blanket: "I'm so stupid. So utterly, hopelessly stupid", she finally said. "I really thought I could make it, you know? Find Harn, travel with him and the rest of the Gondorian merchants until Minas Tirith, then find a way to Pelargir and my aunt. I thought it would be easy, so easy that even _I_ could do it. But I had been living in the clouds, had no idea what was prowling out there, had never cared for…".

"It's not your fault, Lothíriel".

"It's not my fault?", she yelled in a sudden and unexpected burst of anger. "It's not my fault that I dug myself into this room for the past three months? It's not my fault that I was so self-absorbed in my own misery that I was never able to look beyond my own nose and realize what was happening around me?".

"I shouldn't have told you those things".

"No, you shouldn't have! And I should have known better than running off because of a stupid argument!".

"Lothíriel…".

"Why? Why did you even come to save me? Why didn't you just let me die in that forest?", she yelled.

Her words hitting him like a flurry of punches to the gut, Éomer moved closer to her, cupped her neck with his hands: "How can you even say such thing?! I would _never_ want for anything bad to happen to you! And I know it may be hard to believe, but I also _never_ wanted for our marriage to turn out this way".

"You forced me into it with a few days' notice: did you really think it could end up in anything but a disaster?".

Éomer stared at her and for some reason, it took his brain a moment to register the meaning of her words.

_You forced me into it…_

_…with a few days' notice._

His hands dropped and slowly, the seed of a terrible suspicion awoke inside him. A suspicion that found fresh fuel in something Runhild had told him the other day, something he had initially regarded as words dictated by anger and nothing more, but what if they weren't? "A few days' notice?".

"Yes: how could you think that keeping me in the dark would have been the prelude to a happy marriage? How could you think I would _ever_ forgive you – or my father, for the way you schemed behind my back, for the way you decided on my own's life without ever caring for telling me?".

Éomer snapped up, wrestled with the meaning of her accusations: "But that's not true, Lothíriel. You knew about it, you consented to it!", he cried like he desperately wished for that to be true and for some reason, the realization of what had truly happened dawned on her before than it did on him.

"You thought I knew", Lothíriel whispered after a long silence, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging.

A statement. Not even a question.

Éomer staggered back, half-sat and half-fell on his cot: "Y-you didn't?".

Lothíriel shook her head, paled visibly: "My father only told me about a week before the wedding, I-I didn't know until then, had no idea", she confessed, and he could see that she was telling the truth, he could see that she was just as shocked as he was to learn the truth.

Éomer took his head in his hands and suddenly, so many things made sense: "That's why you were always so angry: with me and with your father as well. That's why after we were first introduced, you refused speaking to me, looking at me even. You thought I had been complicit with your father, you thought I had not deemed it relevant for my bride to be informed of our impending wedding, you thought…", he had to stop himself then, because the urge to grab something and throw it against the wall was becoming hard to ignore and he was not going to lose his temper again in front of Lothíriel.

But his wrath all but melted away the moment he looked up and saw her staring blankly at the hands in her lap, her head hanging, looking so frail and so utterly broken: "How could he do such thing?".

Yes! How? How could he care so little about his own daughter? How could he threat her like she was nothing more than a horse you're selling to the best bidder? How could he tell none of them? How could he keep them both in the dark about his handling of the whole situation? So foolish they had been: for months they had been stubbornly ignoring each other and the problems in their relationship instead of facing them like two adults should do, and it had taken to Lothíriel to almost get herself killed before they finally realized that half the things they hated about each other were nothing short of a lie!

Éomer knew he was not a perfect man – far from it in fact, but he would have _never_ married a woman that way. And Lothíriel may not have been perfect either, but she had a reason for her anger, for her contempt: a damn good reason! She had been betrayed by her own father, thrown unknowingly and unwillingly into that joke of a marriage, forced to leave her home from one day to the other and once in Aldburg, she had had to cope with a husband who completely ignored her and a housekeeper who tormented her for faults that were not hers. All in all, it was a wonder she hadn't tried to run off any earlier than that!

Éomer walked to her, kneeled by her side and took one of her hands into his: "I wrote you a letter, you know?".

"A letter?".

"Yes: last autumn, after signing the contract, I wrote you a letter. I had intended to travel to Dol Amroth to meet you in person, but with winter upon us and troubles brewing everywhere, I simply could not afford leaving Rohan. So, I wrote you a letter instead. It wasn't a masterpiece of epistolary literature to be sure, but I just couldn't stand the idea of marrying someone with whom I had never even exchanged a word".

"I never got it".

"I know. Your father sent it back, said correspondence between betrothed was deemed unproper".

Lothíriel drew a ragged breath and when she spoke, her voice was little more than a raspy whisper: "Of course he would", she said, then started wavering and would have fallen down the bed, had he not been there to catch her just in time.

Cursing himself for not realizing the toll their discussion had been taking on her, Éomer helped her lying, then pressed a light kiss on the back of her hand: "Frumgar will have my head for tiring you this way". He tucked her blankets, ensured her right leg was in a harmless position: "I shall better go find him and then, I'll wake up Runhild: what do you say to that?".

She nodded, her eyes already half closed: "Éomer?".

He smiled: miss-proper-etiquette must have been _really_ tired for not even realizing she had stopped calling him _my Lord_. "Yes?".

"The letter you wrote me: do you still have it?".

"Yes, it must be somewhere in my study. Why?".

"I…I'd like to read it, I think".

"Then I shall find it for you".

* * *

**Author's notes:** sorry for taking a longer than expected, but this chapter turned out to be a very difficult one to write. I know the discussion between Lothíriel and Éomer was a long anticipated one and might feel like it was cut short here, but after four days of unconsciousness I doubt anyone could hold any longer than that. Further clarifications will have to wait until she has recovered but at least, they are now both aware of the circumstances of their marriage and can better understand each other's struggles.

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: not everything could end well. Lothíriel survived and the child too, but unfortunately Rohiril didn't make it. Éothain was a torment but ultimately meant well: his distaste for Lothíriel was based on her behaviour and the moment he saw her for something more than a spoiled little girl, he was willing to admit his mistake and come to the support of his friend. And yes, sailing won't be smooth but at least Éomer and Lothíriel are finally on the same page!

_Guest_: I'm doing my best to update regularly! Will take time to see where their relationship is heading to, but at least you know she is well (more or less at least) and finally aware their situation is more complicated than she thought!

_Katia0203_: glad _ravine_ was not completely wrong to describe what I had in mind! And thanks for the hint on _somewhen_ vs. _someday_ , will try to use it the right way from now on! :)

_pineapple-pancake_: he did a lot of mistakes but is definitely setting the record straight now!

_Anne_: thank you so much! That was exactly what I was trying to convey: that he may have a bad temper and pass for the seasoned warrior, but he's a human after all and hurts just like anybody else in that situation.

_SwanKnightoftheNorth_: not that I have that much to do these days so…better do something productive! :) You stay safe too!

_Catspector_: glad you like it! Keeping Meregith is maybe brilliant but also a bit of a gamble and we will see how it will turn out. At least he knows the odds are against him and is ready to deal with her in a more timely manner in the future. At this point, I don't even think Éomer needed Runhild's words to take the appropriate measures against his housekeeper: he had known for quite some time that something was wrong, but he had no idea the extent of it. The moment it became clear, there was no stepping back for him and the trust he once had in Meregith is now totally broken and will be hard to mend.

_Aylatha_: oh dear! I swear I'll never learn the whole _niece-nephew-granddaughter-grandson_ thing. I think it's because in Italian they are all translated to the same word and in English, _nephew_ is always the first one to come to my mind. I'll try to pay more attention next time and as per the typos, I try to do my best but English is clearly not my mother tongue and since I was not able to find a beta reader, they will keep occurring I'm afraid :(

_tgo62_: he was there, he did apologize and even more than that, they finally managed to have the first honest conversation since they got married. Obviously Lothíriel has a long healing process in front of her and as Frumgar anticipated, she might face long-lasting effects from her wounds. To which extent, we shall see.

_Menelwen_: good to hear from you again! :) Yes, Éomer was at fault but in the end, they both told terrible things to each other, they both got themselves where they are and I doubt Éomer could have ever imagined Lothíriel doing something so foolish like running off on her own. If anything, they reached the lowest point in their relationship and from here, things can only get better!

_Lady Meropa_: thank you for your reviews! :) I think the whole problem lies in none of them fully knowing the truth and blaming everything on the other. Éomer thinks Lothíriel has known for months about their marriage and is convinced she somewhat reluctantly consented to it. As such, he can't fully understand her blind hatred not only towards him, but especially towards everybody else. As per Lothíriel, she is convinced Éomer plotted with her father and has never considered the idea that he was tricked as much as she was. She comes from a society that is very much based on appearance and the moment something puts her off, she retreats behind a façade of haughty indifference. Runhild had the "luck" to happen upon her in a moment of breakdown and that helped her seeing Lothíriel for who she really is from the very beginning. Ultimately, I agree that since she's the one who had to leave her home, it should have been up to Éomer to do more for their relationship. It's true that he's the one in power, he's the one in control; but exactly because of this, it's easy to forget that he is but a man and what happens around him, affects him deeply - though he has learnt not to show it. Their upbringing couldn't be any more different: Lothíriel grew up in a golden cage, sheltered to the point of becoming completely "ignorant" of what life for a normal person could be. Éomer on the other hand saw his childhood cut short and grew up in a world of war and blood. Yet there are aspects of their characters that are more similar than they might think and if only they gave themselves a chance, if only they started being honest with one another - even if that means exposing sides of themselves they don't particularly like, their marriage would stop being such a miserable place to be…


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Aldburg, April the 26th, 3018_

Runhild gave her a disbelieving stare, baffled at what appeared to be the ugliest piece of clothing ever to be made: "I swear I'll never understand how you can be so bad at it".

"Runhild!", Wilrun shrieked.

"But it's true! Look at this…this…I don't even know what this is!".

Wilrun almost turned purple then, whether out of embarrassment for Runhild's ruthless comments or because she was trying very hard not to laugh at her ineptitude, that she did not know: "Don't be so harsh with her! Lothíriel is still recovering and knitting was probably not the best form of entertainment we could come up with".

Though that was certainly true, Lothíriel had to disagree with her: "I appreciate your attempt at defending the indefensible, but I'm afraid my lack of skills has nothing to do with me being weakened", she admitted. In fact, she had always considered embroidery to be one of the most bothersome, stressful pastimes ever!

"It doesn't matter and besides, you have other talents you can be proud of".

"You admit I'm a lost cause then?".

The look on Wilrun's face as she studied from more up-close her needlework was worth more than a thousand words: "It is bad…".

"I wonder what your mother would say about it", Lothíriel chuckled.

"Oh, trust me: you don't want to know. When it comes to anything even remotely related to her work, she can be mercilessly outspoken! Speaking of which: have you given a thought which dresses you'd like her to make?".

"Dresses?".

"Yes: which cut, which style and so forth. If you have something specific in mind you could even sketch it, wouldn't that be great?", she proposed with a great deal of excitement. Seeing her puzzlement however, she suddenly paused. "Oh dear, did I choose the wrong colours?", she asked, her eyes glancing towards her desk: there, neatly piled in one corner, were all the cloths Harn had given her.

"Those were for me?".

"Why, of course! Didn't he tell you?".

"Well yes, the merchant said you bought them for me but since I knew nothing of it, I assumed it was just an excuse. I thought maybe you didn't want your mother to know or…".

"I meant Lord Éomer: he never told you, didn't he?".

Lothíriel frowned while besides her, Runhild rolled her eyes and let her needle spin at an almost unnatural speed: "The day the Gondorian merchants returned to Aldburg, he called me to his study and explained that since you had been forced to travel light from Minas Tirith, he was concerned you did not have enough clothing with you. He had already visited Harn's stall at the market but wasn't sure which colours and textures you might have liked and since we are friends and my mother is a seamstress, he asked if I could help".

Lothíriel stared at her with what she supposed was a rather dumb expression: "Oh, I-I didn't know…", she mumbled.

"He told me I could buy as much as I saw it fit, as long as that included the scarlet fabric. That was the only one he was sure about, obsessed almost: I think he reminded me about a dozen times about it!", Wilrun giggled.

Lothíriel looked at her. Then at the scarlet fabric sitting on top of all others. Then back at her: "But I hate that colour!", she couldn't help but blurting out.

"Trust the man to have the worst possible taste ever", Runhild growled, to which Wilrun burst out laughing: "Why would you even say that?! Lothíriel would look great in scarlet: the colour fits her hair, brings out her complexion and…and it's just perfect for her!".

"It looks awful", Runhild declared, her tone dry, her frown growing deeper by the minute.

"That's not true! My mother too agrees with Lord Éomer and in fact, she went as far as praising his good eye and…".

"Fine!", Runhild cut her short, the crochet taking off from her hands and landing somewhere under the bed: "A scarlet gown would suit her nicely, so what? Shall we build the man a statue just because he can judge colours?", she yelled, then strode out of the room and shut the door closed behind her with enough strength that Lothíriel thought it might have just come unhinged.

A moment of bewildered silence was cast over them: "What in Bema's name has gotten into her? Was it something I said?", Wilrun asked, staring with some concern at the frame of the door.

"It's not your fault", Lothíriel reassured her, her mood considerably tampered: "She's just angry. _Very_ angry".

"I am also angry at Lord Éomer for whatever he told you that made you run that way, but that's hardly a reason to leave that way just because someone mentioned his name!".

"It's not only that. Runhild is angry with me – for the way I left of course, but especially because she thinks I should be…angrier".

Wilrun arched an eyebrow: "She's angry because you are not angry enough?".

"Yes".

"What does that even mean?".

Lothíriel sighed, tried to shift into a more comfortable position but whichever way she turned, there was always something aching or – even worse, itching. Leaning back against the bedpost, she tried to collect her thoughts. Ever since arriving in Aldburg, Runhild had been the only beam of light in an otherwise pitch-black darkness. Her face had been the last thing she had seen before slipping into unconsciousness and not in a lifetime would she ever forget the moment she had entered her room after she had awoken: she had cried like a baby, sobbed to the point she thought she would have passed out and for the whole night, she had never let go of her hand. Guilt ridden, she had apologized a thousand times for the stupidity and selfishness of her actions but the moment she had opened up about what Éomer had told her, things had taken a sudden turn for the worse: "Runhild thinks this", she said opening her arms and pointing at her mangled leg, "is all Éomer's fault. She thinks I should hate him for what happened and can't accept the fact I'm not feeling that way".

Wilrun stored her yarn away and dragged her chair a little closer to her bed: "You're not angry at him?".

"I am. But things are…complicated, and I tried to explain it to Runhild, but she just won't listen. She thinks I should demand to be sent back to Gondor because there's no way Éomer can deny me that now".

Wilrun bit her lip as if unsure she could say what was on her mind: "She thought you had taken your life, Lothíriel", she finally confessed. "That day, when she came knocking at your door and found it locked, when she realized no one had seen you in almost a day, she thought you had taken your life. After she returned to Aldburg later that night, I came here and found her sitting on the floor, crying and holding that bracelet you gave her to her chest. She told me that had something happened to you, she'd have never forgiven Lord Éomer and now, despite loving you like a sister, she'd rather see you gone than knowing you living a miserable life among us. Even if that means she'll never get to see you ever again".

Lothíriel angrily wiped her tears away: she hated so much the weeping mess she had become those days!

"Lord Éomer would find a way, you know? I doubt he can get your marriage annulled, but I'm sure he'd find some sort of _diplomatically correct_ solution so that the two of you can live separate lives in separate countries. This way you could go back to Dol Amroth and…".

"I don't want to go back to Dol Amroth".

Her stance obviously came as a surprise: "You don't?".

Lothíriel shook her head and at last, she spat it all out: she told Wilrun of her father's scheming, of his decision to tell her nothing about her marriage, of the way he had informed her but a few days before the ceremony itself. Her friend listened carefully and by the time she was done, all she could do was staring at her with wide eyes and a thousand questions floating in her mind. Eventually, she settled for the most obvious one: "Did Lord Éomer know?".

"I thought he did and that's why I hated him so much, that's why I was always so angry – with him and with everybody else too! You have no idea how awful I was, Wilrun: back in Minas Tirith I just pretended he did not exist, turned the other way every time he'd say a word. But he kept trying and in what precious little time we had before the wedding, he'd often pass by my room: once he asked if I could show him the city, another he proposed to have a stroll through the gardens, another he invited me for tea. I never answered, never even opened the door and in the end, he just gave up and started ignoring me. On our way here, I took my anger out on his squire, told the boy terrible things, accused him – and all of you really, to be nothing more than a bunch of uneducated rubes with whom I was being forced to spend the rest of my life. But my anger was misdirected for Éomer was fooled into this marriage as much as I was and the other day, when we both finally understood the extent of my father's foul play, I think he was even more shocked than I was. To me, I hated my father before and I continue doing so. But to him, realizing I had no say in all of this, realizing he had practically bought me and got me shipped all the way here without me ever agreeing to anything, it was…difficult, I think".

"He would never do such thing, I'm sure of it! He is…".

"He is an honourable man?", Lothíriel finished the sentence for her, laughing softly: "That's exactly how my father tried to sell me the whole thing, you know? _He's an honourable man_, he told me. I didn't believe him of course and in my mind, I had already decided the type of man he was. But then I arrived here and as time passed by, I found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the image of the vile man I married with the great hero you all thought him to be – Runhild too, until not long ago. And in my own little way I tried to better understand him, but I always found him so…".

"Intimidating?", Wilrun suggested.

"Yes. And stern, cold, constantly frowning down at me like I was nothing more than a burden to him. There have been rare instances in which he seemed to drop the mask and reveal a gentler side, but then he'd always go back to his usual self and I'd only grow more confused and insecure about him. Yet he came for me and when we spoke the other night he seemed so…different".

"He was out of his mind, Lothíriel. I saw him when he brought you back, saw the fear in his eyes; and my father was there when they found you in the woods, said he had never seen him that way, said that had you died, he didn't know what he might have done".

Thinking of the man next to whom she had awoken, remembering how she had seen him laughing one moment and crying the next, Lothíriel had no difficulties believing it. Truth was, that night Éomer had been all she had needed him to be: reassuring with his calm presence and little silly attentions; comforting when she had needed to cry out and any word would have been inappropriate; brutally honest in admitting his own struggles and faults. He had been all he – and her, had failed to be during those past few months and even though she still blamed him for being the reason why she had to leave her home, she realized now he was hardly the barbarian she had accused him to be. "I don't know what to do, Wilrun. My plan was to ride to Pelargir, where my aunt lives: she never forgave my father for marrying me and I thought I could have hidden there but now…", she tried to explain while in her mind, the memory of Dúnor running away from his parents' torn bodies kept playing over and over again: "…now I feel like I could ride to the world's end and yet, what would I accomplish? Life will never be the same, _I _will never be the same girl who spent her days reading books and worrying about nothing", she realized with a pang of fear that almost kicked the breath out of her. Because if she wasn't that person anymore, then who was she? Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, or rather Lothíriel of Rohan, wife of Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark? Where did she belong to? The palace by the sea where she had spent a blissfully blithe childhood, or that strange city full of so many hostile faces and yet blessed at the same time with some of the best friends she had ever had? What was she supposed to do? Should she demand to be sent back to Gondor only to be the shade of the person she was, living her days pretending she had not felt on her own skin what the world out there was like, or should she stay in Rohan instead to…to do what, exactly?

Wilrun made for saying something but she raised a hand to stop her: "I-I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind".

"Of course", she consented. She collected her things and made for leaving, then rushed back to her and pulled her in a gentle embrace: "Whatever you'll decide, I promise you'll be fine", she whispered in her ear.

* * *

Éothain almost jumped out of his skin when he suddenly materialized on the doorway. His expression changed however, when he noticed the smug smile on his face and the two ales in his hands: "So it's true? She's awake?".

"Yes".

All puffed up like the peacock he was, Éothain stood fists on his hips and chin raised: "Can I tell it?".

"Fine, just get over with it".

"I told you she would have recovered!", he declared with a booming voice, holding his pose for a more dramatic effect.

"Yes, you were right: happy now?".

"Moderately", he grinned, snapping one the ales out of his hand.

Éomer laughed and beckoning for him to follow, he made his way out of the stables and across the square, then up the narrow path that led to the ruins of the old watch tower. He knew Éothain – and pretty much everybody else in town, hated the place: it was old, creepy and full of strange sounds. Many actually believed it to be cursed by some daunting spectre but in the many years he had come up there, the scariest thing he had witnessed were dormice nestling under the half-collapsed roof and – during the summer, bats sleeping in what was left of the basement. And he liked the place: he liked the trees sprouting from the cracks in the rocks, he liked the ivy growing on the walls, he liked the musk covering the stones and, above all, he liked the undisturbed quiet the place offered thanks to his gloomy reputation.

Leaning against the remains of an old wall, he took a hefty sip from his mug and took a moment to enjoy the view. His eyes scanned the city, then lingered on the window of Lothíriel's room: it appeared dark and silent, the curtain swaying gently in the light evening breeze.

"When did she awake?", Éothain asked, looking suspiciously around as if he expected a ghost to jump on him at any moment.

"The night after you left for Edoras".

"…and?", he prompted him: "How is she feeling? What does Frumgar say? Did you speak with her?".

"Aren't you nosy".

"Come on, don't leave me hanging!".

"She's feeling better, or so Frumgar told me".

"You haven't seen her?".

"I was there when she awoke and we had a…lengthy conversation. But she slept most of yesterday, this morning she was busy with Runhild and Wilrun and when I passed by her room in the afternoon, Frumgar told me she was resting again. He says it's her body's way to recover and that there's nothing to be concerned of".

"Guess that's all that matters".

Lost in his thoughts, Éomer stood silently for a long while: as light started to fade, Aldburg's streets grew emptier, its taverns louder. Far below them, a group of lads stumbled across a deserted alley, singing – or better said howling, some obscene ditty; almost at the same time, the door to some not very reputable establishment banged open and a young boy – far too young to be anywhere around there, was unceremoniously forced out. In a fit of sudden rage, he started kicking the door until one giant of a man appeared behind him and put an end to his nuisance with one well-placed fist. "Éothain?".

"Hm?".

"Say tomorrow I'll start planning Éowyn's marriage to some Gondorian noble. Say I'll tell her nothing until a few days before the wedding. What do you think would happen then?".

Éothain looked at him in stunned disbelief: "I think we would need a new Marshall, that's what would happen". He chugged his beer to the last drop, then wiped his beard with the sleeve of his tunic: "It's incredible how those people still believe themselves superior to us – in any way. Our palaces may not be as sophisticated as theirs, but at least we don't sell our daughters like cattle at the market!".

"I married a woman without her consent, Éothain".

"Don't blame yourself, you had no idea…".

"It's a lame, pathetic excuse!", he snapped. "I should have known and anyway, it shouldn't have taken me three months to find it out. All this time, Lothíriel thought I had been part of her deceiving: can you blame her for hating me?".

"No", Éothain admitted: "I just don't understand how her father could do such thing".

"I keep asking myself the same thing. I tried writing him a letter, but I can't even get past his name…".

"Your Royal Abomination Prince Imrahil of Dol-rotten Amroth?".

Éomer tried to keep a straight face, but that got him smiling nonetheless: "Something like that, yes".

"What will you do now?".

He rubbed his face, took a deep breath in search of some clarity but his mind kept being the usual turmoil: "I have no idea".

"Do you want her to stay?".

"Yes", he answered without any hesitation: "She deserves a place among us and as selfish as it may sound, I don't want to see her gone", he confessed.

"You have many flaws Éomer, but selfishness is not one of them: you always put others' needs first and if I know you one bit, then you've spent the past two days tormented by your conscience and will never forgive yourself for what happened to her".

"How could I? She was forced to leave her home, forced to marry a complete stranger, forced into my bed!", he growled, his knuckles turning white at the memory of their wedding night, of the fear in Lothíriel's eyes when he had entered their bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed and dressed in nothing but a thin white chemise, she had looked like a sacrificial lamb placed there for his own pleasure: how could he not see she had been put there against her will? "Bema I could have raped her…", he muttered, a sickening feeling rising in his stomach.

"But you didn't".

"Shall I congratulate myself for this extraordinary achievement?".

"No, of course not. But if you want Lothíriel to stay, then you should go tell her. I know you think you don't have the right to do so, but all this mess was caused by her ruthless father and by the two of you – and all of us really, being too stubborn to speak with one another and find out the truth. Maybe Lothíriel will ask to be sent back to Gondor and so be it, but don't you think you should at least tell her that you want her to stay?".

Éothain was right. If a chance still existed for him to mend his relationship with Lothíriel, then it lied in being honest and proving her that despite an awful start, the future ahead of them could be a brighter place.

She needed to know he wanted her to stay and she needed to know his wish had nothing to do with the possible implications of her going back home: in fact, he didn't care one bit about the crumbling of an already shaky alliance between their countries, he didn't care one bit what his cousin would say and he didn't even care one bit if his own position as a Marshall would be jeopardised. If he wanted her to stay, it was only because under the well-polished surface of a refined princess, hid a thoughtful, kind, brave – if a little reckless, young woman; one who had proved more strength and courage than she even realized; one who could find a more meaningful life in a place like Rohan, where her virtues would be cherished and her freedom respected.

One with whom he could find some sort of happiness, if only she wished the same thing.

Gazing at her window, Éomer could almost see her sitting behind the curtains, wasting her days away in the solitary confinement of her room, mourning the life that had been stolen from her while the rest of the world moved carelessly forward. And Bema, she deserved more than that! "I'll speak to her tomorrow", he promised.

By his side, Éothain threw him an apprehensive glare, then stared intently at the bottom of his mug as if hoping some more ale had miraculously appeared in there: "I'm afraid that won't be possible…".

He snapped around: "Why not?".

"Because you need to leave Aldburg tomorrow at first light".

"You don't tell me…", Éomer groaned, collapsing with his head against the wall.

¨Yes, you're expected in Meduseld latest by tomorrow evening".

"Tomorrow evening?!", he almost chocked: "I sent you there to buy me some time and you managed to get my audience anticipated instead?!".

Éothain looked dangerously close to start pulling on his own hair: "There was no buying, Éomer! I arrived in Edoras and found that slimy little snake waiting for me in the stables: in the stables, you understand?!", he cried, throwing his arms in the air.

"What did Gríma want from you?".

"To talk about you, of course! He started babbling about what happened at the Holbeck farm, said its destruction was a loss for the whole Mark and that you should not have let that happened", he explained, to which Éomer barely managed to keep his temper in check. His next words however, had him freezing on the spot: "Then, he started questioning your loyalty to Rohan because of what happened to Lothíriel".

"He already knew?".

"He knew she had run off. He didn't know we had found her. I was taken aback, didn't know what to say. In the end, I figured there was no point denying and tried downplaying it instead: I told him yours had been a lovers' quarrel and that he had misunderstood the whole situation for in fact, Lothíriel had already returned to Aldburg. I know it was a gamble to assume she'd recover, but I thought…".

"You did good, Éothain: I'd have handled it way worse".

"It's cold comfort: Grima was not persuaded and demanded that you to report immediately to the King. He even pretended that I rode straight back to Aldburg so that you could be in Edoras already today. All I could do was buying you this extra day…".

Éomer run a hand through his hair and paced restlessly around the ruined tower: "I have known for quite some time that we have a mole – probably more than one. But I hadn't expected them to be that zealous".

"Any idea who that might be?".

"No, but I intend to find it out", he hissed back.

* * *

Small eyes. Long muzzle full of fangs. Short but dense fur.

"Damn it!", Lothíriel muttered as she tossed her sketching book away. She had always considered her talent for drawing like a gift, but those days it felt more like a curse: every time she would reach for the charcoal and regardless of her best intentions, her hands would always end up portraying those awful beasts yet again. As if the images branded in her memory weren't already enough!

Reluctant at the idea of getting some more sleep only to be awoken by the umpteenth awful nightmare, Lothíriel thought of what else she could do while she waited for the sun to rise: she could read a book but alas, _Twilight Tales _stood on her desk and therefore out of her reach. For the same reason, she could also forget about sitting on the sill: she wasn't even able to change clothes on her own, let alone limp until the window. Asking for an early breakfast could have been a brilliant idea, but she had had her fill of bland chicken soup – the only thing she was allowed to eat, for some reason. She briefly entertained the idea of starting a hunger strike but doubted Frumgar would have been amused by her reticence.

Lothíriel let out an exasperated sigh but the prospect of a long and tedious wait until the morning was unexpectedly interrupted when someone knocked at her door: "Come in!", she called, glad to whoever was suffering from insomnia as much as she was.

Of all the people she had expected to see, her husband had not been one of them: "May I?", he asked, peeking from behind the door. Taken aback, Lothíriel hesitated but one moment too long and immediately, he retreated: "I can return later…".

"No, no: you can come in. I just did not expect it to be you, that is all".

Hands behind his back, Éomer made one reluctant step forward: "I saw the lights on and thought maybe you were awake", he explained, standing in the half-light and looking like he was ready to bolt out of the room at any moment. "Do you mind if I keep you company?".

Lothíriel didn't even have the time to answer that her stomach took the initiative and erupted in one loud grumble that had her reddening to the tip of her ears: "I'm sorry!", she apologized.

"Are you hungry?", Éomer asked, the corners of his mouth twitching and betraying his otherwise solemn expression.

She'd have denied it, but her stomach was not yet done complaining: "A bit", she admitted, hugging her belly and hoping there would be no more embarrassing sounds.

"Frumgar's diet is terribly dull, I know", Éomer told her with a roguish smile that looked so strange on his usually sulky face. As he finally came closer however, his expression changed to one of concern: "I don't know if they told you, but I tried to visit you twice yesterday – and the day before as well!, but you were always either busy or resting", he informed her and there was something in the way he spoke, in his tone. Like he really wanted her to know his absence had not meant he had not been ignoring her, quite the contrary in fact.

Lothíriel was at loss: it was as if a part of her had expected the kind, caring version of her husband to be nothing more than a fleeting moment and now that she saw him for the first time with clear eyes, she had no idea how to react to his thoughtfulness.

The mattress bounced under his weight and perhaps prompted by her obvious discomfort, Éomer leaped back on his feet and opted for sitting on a chair instead. He took her sketching book with him, frowned as he examined her portrait: "I must say, I prefer the birds", he told her. Then, as if suddenly realizing he had admitted to sticking his nose into her stuff, he grew visibly embarrassed: "I'm sorry, they were probably not for me to see. I just found them on your desk and thought they were beautiful".

Lothíriel stared at the warg's wicked eyes for one last moment, then tore the page out and ripped it to pieces: "Me too".

"Why the birds, if I may ask?".

"It's because of Elendil", she explained with a half grin, well aware of how that sounded.

"Elendil as the king of Gondor?".

"No. Elendil as my brother's crow".

"Your brother had a crow named Elendil?".

"Yes", she laughed. "Erchirion found him hidden under a bush with a half-broken wing and for some reason, he decided he could nurse him back to health. Nobody believed he'd manage but much to my father's dismay, the bird survived and Erchirion named him Elendil. The two of them became inseparable: Elendil was always on my brother's shoulder, he would wait on a fence while he was training and when he started going at sea, so did he. I was only five years old at the time, but I remember I was so fascinated by him: even though he was no longer able to fly, even though crows are not the most elegant among birds, there was strength, grace to him. And he was smart, had a strong personality. Much to my delight, Elendil tolerated my presence but absolutely hated Amrothos, my youngest brother: the fool once tried to pull the feathers on his tail and next thing we know, Amrothos is screaming and running around the palace with Elendil pecking the back of his head".

Éomer laughed and for the first time, Lothíriel noticed there were two dimples hidden under his dark-blond beard: "What happened then?".

"A family feud: Amrothos declared he'd have killed Elendil and served him for dinner, to which Erchirion – who was four years older and therefore considerably stronger, tackled him to the ground and almost punched him in the face. For months they ignored each other until one day, Elendil disappeared and never came back".

"Amrothos had nothing to do with it?".

"No, luckily for us he was in Pelargir when it happened. Had he been in Dol Amroth, it might have just ended up in a fratricide".

A smile lingering on his lips, Éomer took what was left of the warg's portrait and patiently burned every last piece of paper on the flame of a candle: "Are you close with your brothers?".

"With Erchirion, mostly. Elphir was always too much older and serious to spend time with me and I never got along with Amrothos. But Erchirion and I are much alike and always enjoyed spending time together, at least until my father put him in charge of the Amrothian fleet. I haven't seen much of him since then".

Flipping through her portraits, Éomer seemed determined to find something: "What of them? Who are they?".

In his hand was a page Lothíriel knew all too well. One she had spent entire days looking at, hoping she could get sucked into the paper to travel back to that exact moment, that exact place: "She's Gaeril, my handmaid: she raised me and has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. And he's Bathor, my cat".

"Your father mentioned her once, said she was too old to come with you".

"Yes, she is almost seventy years old and has many of the aches and pains that come with age. She could have never made it to Rohan on a horseback".

"What of him? Why didn't you bring him with you?".

Lothíriel sighed as the portrait sent her into a spiral of bittersweet memories: "Pretty much for the same reason. Bathor is old and deserves to live his last years peacefully and in a place he's familiar with: dragging him all the way here would have been selfish of me. Gaeril always adored him and I'm sure they are taking good care of each other"

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to upset you", Éomer apologized. His arms resting on his knees and his head tilted back, he stared pensively at the wooden beams above them: "Do you think they knew? Your brothers, Gaeril: do you think they knew about your father's plans?".

"Elphir did, had to. Amrothos, probably not: he has never been any good at keeping his mouth shut, so I doubt they informed him. As per Gaeril and Erchirion, no: they did not know. Gaeril, I could bid her farewell at least; but Erchirion wasn't even there when I left and all I could do, was writing him a letter…".

Éomer muttered a curse, hid his face in his hands as if he didn't want her to see his anger, his frustration.

The words just slipped out of her mouth: "What will happen now?".

His hand moved to cover hers: it was warm, its skin tanned and rough. "That is not for me to decide, Lothíriel: I will tell you what I'd like to happen but ultimately, it's your decision and whichever that will be, I will respect it". He paused then, seemed to struggle: his foot was tapping on the rug and twice he inhaled like he was about to speak, but then swallowed whatever he wanted to say. "I'd like you to stay", he finally said and though holding her gaze, in his eyes Lothíriel saw the uncertainty of someone who was laying bare his feelings with no assurance of how they would be received. "This marriage was forced on us – on you more than on me, and I've been a fool for not realizing it, I've been a fool for not giving you a chance, I've been a fool for not seeing what you were being put through. But I'm not ready to throw in the towel and I don't want you to leave. I know there's not much I can offer you and I know you had to renounce everything to be here, but I promise to be here for you – as a husband today, as a friend or perhaps something else in the future. Either way, I give you my word that you'll always be free: free to do as you wish, free to be who you choose to be". He gathered both her hands into his, gave them a light squeeze as if he desperately needed that touch to continue with his next words: "Stay, Lothíriel".

His voice was firm, his gaze upon her unwavering.

"Stay, because there's nothing I want more than getting to know this young, strong, beautiful woman who was under my nose for this whole time without me even realizing it; stay, because under this mediocre appearance you might find that even I, have something to offer you. Stay, but only if you think you could find happiness here – in whichever form that might be. And if you don't think it possible, if you think my words are too little too late, then I'll understand and you have my word that I'll escort you home – or wherever else you wish to be, and you won't have to see me ever again", Éomer finished his plea and only then did Lothíriel realize her hands were shaking and clutching compulsively at the blanket, her heart pounding in her chest.

Éomer searched her eyes and she could see that he wanted her to say something, that any further moment of silence was an agony. But she didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do.

His hand flinched back and there was an apologetic look in his eyes: "I understand if you need time", he reassured her with a stretched smile: "I'll anyway be leaving in the morning, so you'll have time to think about it without me pestering around. Before I leave however, there's one last thing I need to talk to you about: Meregith". A flash of anger crossed his face as he spelled the housekeeper's name, his expression growing suddenly thunderous: "I know this won't look well on me, but I had no idea things had gone so much out of control with her. I knew she wasn't fond you, of course. But I didn't know the extent of her hatred for you and I should have never left you alone dealing with it".

"Why does she resent me so?".

"She blames you for her daughter's dead".

"Meregith had a daughter?".

"Yes, Dawyn was her name. We grew up together and to me, she was like a sister. But Dawyn had…deeper feelings for me and when she found out I was about to marry, she decided to leave the city and move to her father's hometown in the Westfold. On her way there, her party was attacked and she was killed alongside her travelling companions".

Éomer's voice was laced with a sadness so profound, Lothíriel felt like chocking: "She loved you and could not stand the idea of seeing you with someone else", she mumbled. "Did you love her?".

"She was family but no, I did not love her in a romantic way".

"Was there someone else? Did you have to reject someone you loved because of me?", she managed to ask, fighting with all her might the urge to start crying all over again.

Éomer snapped up, took her chin between his fingers: "There was no one, Lothíriel. You came here as my rightful wife, you stole no one else's place and you bear no responsibility for Dawyn's demise, you understand?".

Rationally, she knew he was right. Yet it hurt to find out just how much misery her arrival in Aldburg had brought: to herself and to people whom existence she had not even been aware of.

"Meregith's hatred is irrational and the fact she'd have rather let you die than sending for a search party, simply abominable. I know I should have dismissed her and trust me, there's no shortage of people who keep reminding me just that. I decided otherwise because she has been an important part of my life, but I want you to know that should you decide to stay – and Bema knows how much I hope you will, Meregith's misbehaviour won't be tolerated anymore".

Éomer's eyes were as dark as a moonless night, his voice intense, his hand warm as he cupped her cheek. Deep within, Lothíriel felt something stirring: her arms locked around his neck, she pulled him down and until she could bury her face against the crook of his neck. She wanted to tell him she was sorry for all the grief she had caused; she wanted to tell him she knew the circumstances of their marriage were not his fault; she wanted to tell him she had never expected him to come save her, but was oh so very thankful he had. But her breath was ragged in her throat and all she could do was clinging on him and hope he'd understand that whatever would be, she did not blame him for the miserable fate that had befallen them.

His hand stroking reassuringly her back, Éomer held her gently and when she finally pulled back, he smiled down warmly at her: "You know what", he told as he tucked a rebel strand of hair behind her ear, "I think I might just happen to have something that will lift your morale".

He produced a small package out of his pocket and pressed it into her hands. When she unveiled its content, Lothíriel couldn't help but gasping in astonished surprise: "I thought it lost!".

"Éothain found it".

"It belonged to my mother, my sole memento of her".

With great care, Éomer lifted the necklace and fixed it around her neck, the tips of his fingers grazing lightly over her skin: "You should wear it more often then".

Lothíriel traced the intricate pattern of white gold chains with trembling hands: "I never did for fear of losing it. But maybe you are right: wearing it would be a more joyful way to cherish the memory of her".

"Yes", he agreed and for a moment, he seemed to wander away. Lothíriel wondered if he was thinking of his own keepsakes, of those parents who both left him when he was barely more than a child, but she did not dare asking. His hand slipped again inside his pocket and this time, he pulled out an envelope. It was closed, the seal unbroken: "I brought you this as well. Letters are not my strong suit and you'll probably find this one disappointing, but since you asked if you could read it…".

The flicker of insecurity in his eyes surprised her and without even realizing it, Lothíriel found herself smiling. She had thought him a monster, she had thought him uncapable of any human emotion that wasn't anger. Now, he just looked like a man who had found himself caught in a situation he had not known how to handle. "Thank you, Éomer".

* * *

**Author's notes:** took me a while to finish this chapter as there was much to say.

The aftermath of Lothíriel's ordeal has implications that are both profound and far-reaching: for Lothíriel especially, it's not only about finding out that Éomer had nothing to do with her father's actions. She has lived an extremely sheltered life and all of a sudden, she is now confronted with a world that can be far more cruel and violent than she ever imagined. As such, the decision of whether she wants to go back home or stay in Aldburg instead, encompasses more than just the faith of her marriage.

As per Éomer, his desire for Lothíriel to stay has many drives. Some are selfish because if she leaves, he'll never be able to gain her forgiveness; but above all, he wished her to be happy and is starting to realize that irrespective of whether their marriage will ever be one of love, Rohan could at least give Lothíriel the freedom Gondor has always denied her.

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: high time they started to! Imrahil's actions are truly reprehensible and someday, we'll hear what he has to say for himself.

_pineapple-pancake_: at least they are now on the same page and can stop blaming each other for things that were none of their faults. In a sense, they probably needed to get to such breaking point in order to drop their masks and act like two adults – or at least like themselves!

_Guest_: he is indeed. He needed to show there's more to him than a grumpy man, just like Lothíriel needed to prove there was more to her than an angry, spoiled Princess. The road ahead is somewhat clear for Éomer, but for Lothíriel things are more confused. She never wanted to come to Rohan and for months, she has wished for nothing more but returning home. Now she can but at the same time, she's starting to realize things change and so do we, and she can either embrace it or refute it.

_Beancdn_: it's true. Because of Imrahil's actions the odds were all against them but if only they had stopped assuming they knew everything, they might have saved themselves from such a messy situation. Her characters hadn't helped either: Lothíriel is young, understandably immature and generally very introverted. Éomer is older and has a lot to deal with, but behind the façade of the great warrior he too hides insecurities just like anybody else. If anything, reaching this breaking point has forced them to suddenly drop the mask.

_tgo62_: thank you! Being Italian, I think the main difficulty - aside from vocabulary itself, is structuring sentences in a correct way. I remember an English teacher I had in Canada once explained me that Italian – like most of the Latin languages, has a spiral structural. Sentences are long, complicated and they tend to go in circles before reaching the final point. English on the other way is more direct and as such, I always find myself fighting against the urge of building unnecessarily long sentences. Strange times indeed: Italy is gradually easing the lockdown and luckily, my family is doing fine – hope yours too! The economic cost is truly worrying: here in Switzerland the Bundesrat has done a decent job so far (I even work in the aviation industry, which is one of the worse hit) and social welfare is generally good, so I try to stay hopeful. My family-in-law live in Hamburg and they too share your concern about people not caring enough. I think that's pretty much on everyone's mind at the moment :(

_almythea_: thank you!

_Guest_: glad to hear that and hopefully, you enjoyed this chapter too.

_Catspector_: dealing with Meregith will be a bit like navigating in uncharted waters, but at least Éomer is doing what he can to be prepared and has given a lot of thought on how to avoid making the same mistakes again. Of course picking Gárwine was a somewhat obvious choice: he's been rooting for his wife since the very beginning, he's capable and he knows he can trust him to do the right thing in his absence. Imrahil definitely had the lion's share when it comes to who's to be blamed for this situation. Éomer had the home court and as such, he should have done more to help Lothíriel. But as you said, they were both too stubborn and ultimately got themselves into this situation. For Lothíriel especially, it has been an eye-opening experience: not only on her marriage, but on what the real world is in general.

_pzacharatos:_ thank you, your review definitely made my day! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Edoras, April the 28th, 3018_

The council chamber was dark, the air inside stale as if its windows hadn't been opened in a long while. A man stood guard at the entrance, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes throwing hostile stares at his direction: his was but one of the many stranger faces that had swarmed the hall in past few months and Éomer had little doubt where his allegiance rested. "Where is the King?", he asked, though the answer was hardly any relevant.

"Resting, for he does not wish to be bothered with your many failures", sighed Grima, his voice strained as if those words brought him deep sorrow. "Villages destroyed, convoys attacked and now, the Holbeck farm wiped out by no more than a handful of orcs. Dire must be the days of the East-mark if its Lord fails at protecting his people from even such negligible foes".

Éomer stood tall and proud, determined not to fall for Grima's provocations: "I ordered Cenulf and his family to relocate to Caerdydd. Had they stayed there, none of this would have happened".

The King's councillor advanced towards him, his hand sliding silently on the polished surface of the oak table: "And when all the farmers will have taken cover in our cities, when all the shepherds will have abandoned their meadows, what then?", he asked. "You'd have us cowering instead of fighting, don't you?".

"I do what I can with the men I am given", he growled, forcing himself to stand still despite the revulsion caused by the man's proximity.

"Of course you need more men. After all, an Éored is hardly enough when half of your men are kept busy hunting down your wife instead of defending our people. Your marriage was arranged to secure us an alliance with our southern neighbours, yet you seem determined to gain us another enemy instead", hissed Grima. He circled around him, his glassy eyes looking at him head to toes: "Do you not care about the oath you have taken? Do you not care what could have happened, had your wife perished while attempting to escape your clutches?".

His teeth were clenched so tightly, Éomer thought they might have just cracked: "Why so suddenly concerned with my wife's well-being? Weren't you the one who did everything in his power to prevent this alliance from being forged?".

Grima's eyes flashed dangerously: "I was against this alliance because we do not need Gondor to defend our land. Besides, marrying a Gondorian princess to the likes of you is like casting pearls before swine". He stretched on his toes until he could feel his breath on his face: "Is she really as beautiful as everyone says?", he whispered in his ear, licking his lips in the most repulsive, obscene way.

Éomer snapped and grabbed him by the front of his tunic, picking him effortlessly off the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guard taking a threatening step towards him and if it didn't end in a bloodshed, it was only because Grima had other plans: "I advise you think through your next move, _Marshall_", he told him, a hand raised to halt his man and a half-smile plastered on his hideous face.

Éomer's heart was pounding in his chest, his muscles tense and ready like before a battle. His right hand slid behind his back and towards the dagger hidden under his belt: he felt the cool metal of the blade, brushed his fingers on the carved hilt. He could easily break Grima's neck and have the guard drop dead long before getting in his sword's reach, but that would hardly be the end of his problems. Though few would mourn Grima's passing, many would scramble to replace him: with the King weakened so, being appointed chief councillor meant having absolute ruling power over Rohan. A way too tempting position for all those vultures hanging constantly around his uncle: advisors, counsellors, self-proclaimed old friends and comrades. Many of them were more involved with Grima than they dared to admit and he knew the moment the Wormtongue had been knocked off the board, one of them would rise to power and take the opportunity to make an example of him: he'd be arrested and left to rot in Edoras' dungeons for the rest of his days.

Who'd look after the East-mark then? Who'd care for his sister? Who'd ensure all the fine promises he had made Lothíriel would be fulfilled?

_Is she really as beautiful as everyone says?_

Éomer let go of his grip, the man's grin turning soon into a mocking laughter: "Your impulsiveness will be your doom, as it was already your father's". He walked past him, poured himself a glass of some foul-smelling infusion: "That dear friend of yours – what's his name again?".

"Éothain".

"Yes, him. A simpleton he is, wouldn't be able to lie even he wanted to. If he says your wife is back, then it must be true. Yet I can't help but wonder what it is, that he hasn't told me".

"All is well in Aldburg". It was a bloody lie, but a necessary one.

"Then why did he ride all the way to Edoras – and with such haste?".

"Lothíriel and I had a disagreement. Something I'm sure you'd be able to understand, if only a woman had ever allowed you to touch her. It was my wish to postpone our hearing so we could spend some time together: I thought caring for her and our alliance with Gondor was worth keeping you waiting for a few days, but I see you are of a different mind".

His words hit home and for a brief moment, Grima's usually pale face turned red. Éomer knew it was only a matter of days before a complete account of what had happened would reach Edoras but with some luck, he'd be gone by then and who knows what could happen before his next encounter with his uncle's advisor. "What of the Holbeck farm? Do you intend to do something, or will you pretend nothing has happened?".

"I have already taken care of…".

"You killed the orcs responsible for the carnage, yes. Very impressive. But someone disregarded your orders when Cenulf was allowed to move back to his farm. Do you have an explanation for that too, _Marshall_?".

If he called him _Marshall_ another time and with that same tone, he was going to cut the man's throat open: "No".

"Then I suggest you find one as soon as possible. After all, now that all is good between you and your wife a few more days apart will hardly change anything. Am I not right?".

Éomer's nostrils flared and for a moment, he thought about throwing the man out of the window. Leaving Lothíriel so soon after she had awoken had been already bad enough - even more so after their last conversation. He had left Aldburg with a heavy heart, knowing all too well that now more than ever he needed to be there to show her that he stood by his words - every last one of them. He had taken comfort in the fact that riding to Edoras and back would have taken him no more than three or four days but of course, he was going to be gone for much longer than that: "Of course".

Finally satisfied with what he had achieved, Grima dismissed him with a careless wave. Éomer left the chamber and stormed out of the Golden Hall like a mad man. There, he found his sister waiting for him: "How did it go?".

"I'm still a Marshall and I'm not missing any limb - despite that guard very much wished to depart me from some of them. All in all, not too bad", he muttered as he climbed down the stairs.

"That damn woman…".

Éomer stopped and retraced his steps, towered over his sister with a thunderous expression on his face: "I will assume you're talking about Meregith when you say _damn woman_".

"I am not", snorted Éowyn: "Look how much troubles she's costing you!".

None too gently, Éomer took his sister's arm under his and forced her to follow him away from the hall and its many prying eyes: "You know nothing of her".

"Meregith shouldn't have left her to die, but that doesn't change the fact she's a spoiled little girl", declared Éowyn, somewhat struggling to keep up with his pace.

"Had you been in her shoes…".

"Had I been in her shoes, I wouldn't have let my father marry me that way. That she accepted it without saying a word only makes her soft and weak in addition to spoiled. There's no place for women like her in Rohan and you know it!".

Éomer steered suddenly to his right and dragged his sister into an empty ally: how many letters had Meregith written her during those past few months? For how long had she been poisoning her with her hateful words? "When did Éowyn of Rohan become such a spiteful person? One who can't even bring herself to show some empathy for a woman who has been betrayed by the one man who was supposed to protect her".

Éowyn pulled her arm free of his grip and gave him a cold stare: "I know you feel responsible for what happened to her, but you can't let her turn you against your own family".

"She is my wife, Éowyn. She _is_ family!".

"It takes more than a contract to be part of a family".

"And it takes less than a murder attempt to lose it for good".

His sister's eyes widened in shock: "Do you even listen to yourself?".

Éomer sighed in exasperation. He pulled her to him and pressed a kiss on her brow like he used to do when they were children and he would cradle her to sleep every night in the hope his presence by her side would chase away her nightmares: "I love you, Éowyn. Please don't be my enemy".

She stiffened, her arms hanging by her sides.

"I know we rarely see each other, and I know I seldom answered your letters during the past few months. It's like I'm being pulled in so many different directions that not even if there were ten of me, would that be enough. I became blind to so many things that were happening around me: I did not see what Meregith had become until it was almost too late, I acted as if I did not have a wife and I neglected you as well".

Éowyn pulled back and rested a hand on his shoulder: "I know that. And I never expected a daily stream of letters just so you could keep me entertained with the events of the Eastfold".

"That would hardly make for an entertaining correspondence anyway", he tried to jest, though the bitter tone in his voice somewhat ruined it.

Éowyn's hand reached for his bearded cheek: "I hate to see you like that", she told him, her earlier anger melting quickly away: "I'm not the enemy, I just wish there was more I could do to help you".

"You're doing plenty already".

"Aside from being supportive towards your wife".

"Aside from that, yes. But then, I'm hardly innocent too. All I'm asking is that you give her a chance: she deserves as much".

Her head tilted on one side, Éowyn observed him for a long while: "You like her", she finally said.

Éomer looked away and couldn't help but feeling awkwardly embarrassed. Not because he was reluctant at admitting what was obvious at that point, but rather because he himself could not explain what it was that had triggered such change in his feelings towards Lothíriel. There were the obvious reasons of course - the fact that she had proven more strength and courage than most men possessed. But it wasn't only that: there was something hidden in the softness of her words, in the delicate strokes of her paintings, in the abyss of those grey eyes that had suddenly gained the ability to see right through him in the most disturbing - and yet strangely welcomed, way. For months he had deliberately ignored her; now, he found he could hardly think of anything else: "I do".

The look in Éowyn's eyes was many things: puzzled, surprised, maybe a little disappointed too. "Why?".

Éomer run a hand through his hair and gave her a sheepish smile: "Does it even matter?".

"It does if your feelings are born out of guilt".

"Rest assured they are not!", he snapped. "You said you wished there was more you could do to help me. Did you really mean it?".

"Of course!", said Éowyn, her cheeks turning a bright pink.

"Then stop believing everything Meregith says and stop hating on a woman you have never even met!", he hissed and this time, his sister had the decency to look ashamed. "I did it too, Éowyn: I trusted her blindly, never even considered the idea she might have been lying to me. Gárwine tried to open my eyes but instead of taking action immediately, I hesitated until it was almost too late. Please don't repeat my same mistakes!".

Éowyn drew nearer, leaned with her forehead against his shoulder: "I suppose you are right", she sighed. "Do you think Lothíriel will stay in Aldburg with you?".

"What if I told you I feel slightly optimist about it?".

"You optimist? Who are you and what have you done to my brother?".

Éomer laughed but seeing the ally was becoming a little too crowded, he decided to keep moving: he took his sister's hand and together, they set off towards the stables. They were about halfway there, when he casually slipped a paper into the pocket of her dress: "I'll be leaving tomorrow morning for Caerdydd. I want you to wait for a couple of days, then deliver this letter to Lady Aldwyn", he instructed her.

"What is it about?", asked Éowyn, her eyes fixed on the street ahead of them.

"It's a list of all the people who left Aldburg in the hours after Lothíriel's disappearance. One of them must have ridden straight to Edoras to inform our dearest advisor. I want to know who".

"I could take care of it", she pointed out, irritated that he was not entrusting her with that task.

"I know you could, but Grima keeps a close eye on you. Lady Aldwyn on the other hand, she comes and goes as she pleases and has trusted men at her orders. She can look into this without raising any suspicion".

"Were we to succeed, what shall we do with the rat?".

"Nothing. Just let me know the name and I'll take care of it".

* * *

Lothíriel folded the letter with great care before placing it back in its envelope.

She didn't know why it had taken her so long to read it: after Éomer's departure, for days she had kept it hidden under her pillow or between the yellowed pages of her books. It was almost as if she had been afraid of its content, afraid of what it might have revealed of her husband, afraid of the decisions she might have taken because of it.

For five days, the weight of the choice she had to make had loomed oppressively over her. It distracted her at day and kept her awake at night, so much that the day before she had been forced to swallow a full glass of some foul-tasting sleeping potion Frumgar had brewed especially for her. She knew Éomer would give her all the time she needed, she knew he wouldn't pretend an answer the moment he rode back home. But maybe she pretended it of herself, for she didn't know how long she could take of that uncertainty, of not knowing whether she should settle in Rohan for good or prepare to bid farewell to her friends instead.

The choice had seemed so obvious: when she had left her room at dawn of a cold spring morning; when she had slipped out of the hall through one of those secondary entrances she knew would be unguarded at such time of the day; when she had draped herself in an old shabby cloak she had found in the stables to ensure no one would recognize her; when the city had disappeared behind her and she had been confronted with endless plains ahead of her. The choice had seemed so obvious: escape Rohan, escape your husband, go back home – or as close as possible to it, and return to the life from which you had never asked to be parted. And had she succeeded in her foolish plan, she might have just done that and be happy with it. But things had gone differently and now, she felt like her old life was a handful of sand slipping through her fingers: she could no longer hold on to it and whether she decided to go back to Gondor or stay in Rohan instead, things were going to change dramatically.

_I give you my word that you'll always be free_.

She knew nothing of her husband, yet she trusted him to keep his word. And what he had promised her, was way more than her father had ever given her, way more than she could ever hope to achieve in Gondor.

She took the letter out of its envelope, read it once again.

Éomer had a beautiful handwriting: neat, elegant. He had been concerned she might have found his letter disappointing, but he was wrong about it: dead wrong.

True, it was not romantic – how could it ever be, given it was addressed to a woman he had never met. However, it was so much more than that: it was honest, it was candid, it was sincere. There were no ludicrous promises of eternal love, but rather one of respect and mutual care. There were no great expectations placed on her shoulders, but rather the hope for a future together. Éomer's own uneasiness was hidden in almost every line, and so were his efforts at ensuring Aldburg would give her a worthy welcome: he had restored his mother's books' collection just so she would have plenty to read; he had renovated their bedroom and deliberately left it empty and unadorned just so she could decorate it to her liking and feel more at home; he had chosen her handmaid as someone who knew Gondor well just so she could transition to life in Rohan in the smoothest possible way. He apologized profusely for not being able to travel to Dol Amroth and though his letter said preciously little about himself, his words revealed a strong desire to get to know her better, a wish to marry someone to whom you are not a complete stranger.

Noticing her fingers were starting to shake, Lothíriel placed the letter in her lap and took a deep breath. It didn't work, so she grabbed a mug from her nightstand and threw it with all her strength against the wall: it fell short of a few feet and crashed with a loud bang on the floor.

"My Lady?", called a voice from the other side of the door. It wasn't a familiar one, so she assumed Eofor was no longer covering the night shift.

"I'm fine. I just…dropped something".

"Do you need help?".

"No", she answered, but the door was already opening.

The guard was a man in his thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and thick moustaches. He stared at the mug lying in the middle of the room, then at the distance between them: "When my wife starts dropping things this way, it's normally a sign I should better leave the house", he noted as he kneeled on the floor. "Can I get you something?".

"No, thank you…".

"Balláf", he introduced himself. "Perhaps you'd like something to drink?".

"No", she chuckled: "Rest assured I didn't fly the mug across the room because I was dissatisfied with the quality of water".

"That's a relief!", he grinned as he returned the mug to her: "In case you need to _drop_ something again".

"Thank you, Balláf. If I'll ever run out of projectiles, I'll know who to call on".

The man looked at her for a moment before roaring with laughter: "You do that, my Lady!".

"Wait", she called him back before he could leave: "Could you please open the window?".

"Are you sure? It's quite chilly outside".

"Yes, I need some fresh air".

"As you wish", Balláf conceded, finally allowing for the crisp morning air to flow inside her chamber.

Lothíriel waited until he had left the room, then lied back and pulled the blanket all the way up until her chin.

Outside, the roosters were already starting to crow and the slightest aura of light was slowly rising on the East. Her fingers tracing the edges of Éomer's letter from under the cover of the linens, Lothíriel glanced at the barely discernible profile of the White Mountains: behind them, leagues away from Rohan and Aldburg, a scenery of rolling hills and placid rivers stretched until the sea, until a wild and rugged coastline battered with high waves and lashed by strong winds. Moving further South, the landscape would gradually change until finally reaching the calm blue waters of Lond Cobas and the white cliffs of Dol Amroth. At this time of the year, it wouldn't be unusual to see children spending their days playing on the beach, admiring the great ships leaving the harbour and fantasizing about the great adventures awaiting those brave sailors.

Lothíriel smiled and it was with a sting of sadness that she first started to realize how easy it would be: going back home, lock herself away in the safe haven of her room, fill her days with the tales of heroes that only existed in books. The memories of what she had witnessed in Rohan would eventually come back haunting her but from the height of her ivory tower, she could just ignore them until one day, her time among the Horse-lords would be nothing more than a long-forgotten nightmare.

Wasn't that what she had always wanted? What she had risked her life for?

She tossed in her bed and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders: Balláf was right, it was really cold outside. Yet the breeze blowing in the room and wreaking havoc among her drawings felt like a much-welcomed thrill, one that cleared her mind of all doubts and fears.

Going back to Gondor was the easiest choice she could make.

But perhaps, it was not the right one.

* * *

It wasn't until his third day in Caerdydd that Éomer started to realize something was seriously wrong there.

Upon arriving in the village, he had immediately proceeded to interrogate Fulor – the local ealdorman. Not that he had expected him to collapse on his knees and beg for his forgiveness, but still the man had proven remarkably uncooperative. Totally unaffected by his foul mood – and by the fact it was getting fouler for each further hour he was forced to spend in that place, he had claimed his dispute with Cenulf had been caused by the man pretending larger grounds for his cattle and the exclusive use of the diary to make his famous cheese.

The tale itself was plausible for Cenulf was known to be proud and often despotic. He had been unhappy about abandoning his farm and likely gave Fulor and the rest of the villagers a hard time getting used to his presence there. However, Éomer found it hard to believe the two men had come to blows over such thing. And the fact that Fulor had failed to notify him of what had happened – the only thing for which he had actually apologized, made him all the more reluctant to believe his side of the story.

The only other person who had witnessed the start of the fight between the two men was Beyrith, a young woman who lived with Fulor and who had introduced herself as the man's niece. Though her story was a sadly common one in Rohan – an orphan moving in with her closest relative, there had been something deeply disturbing about her. The way her eyes had quivered while recounting the events of that day; the fact that her account had matched perfectly Fulor's one – down to the use of the exact same wording; the sudden burst of anger when she had muttered that Cenulf and his family had _gotten what they deserved_. Her interrogation had left him with more questions than answers and he had spent the following two days looking for clues and asking around. Unfortunately, the whole village had proven to be exceptionally tight-lipped and so in the end, he had done the only thing that always worked in such cases: he had declared he'd be leaving in the morning and invited everyone for a round of ale at the local tavern. He had let everyone drink their fill until finally, alcohol had started to loosen tongues: a half-whispered confession here, a careless word there and long before dawn, the truth had been served on a silver platter.

Taking advantage of the distraction caused by a group of girls singing and dancing on a table, Éomer sneaked out of the tavern without telling anyone.

A persistent rain had reduced the streets to a filthy mess and by the time he had arrived in front of Fulor's house, the lower part of his body was covered in dirt while the upper one was soaked wet. Hearing hushed voices and muffled sounds coming from the other side of the door, Éomer strode in without even caring for knocking: "Leaving in the middle of the night?".

Fulor was so shocked to see him there, that he didn't even try to invent some ridiculous excuse to justify himself. Instead, he glanced towards Beyrith who immediately retreated far from him and towards the hearth. Éomer was surprised and relieved at the same time: he had feared the man might have taken the girl hostage but instead, he seemed keen to get her out of their way. "You should have joined us at the inn. You've missed a great deal of interesting stories".

Fulor made one step towards the window and licked nervously his lips: "Such as?".

"Such as the one where no one knew you had any brothers or sisters, let alone a niece". From the corner into which she had retreated, Beyrith glared at him and there was no mistaking the hatred in her eyes: "How old are you?", he asked her.

She did not answer. Not until Fulor had nodded imperceptibly at her: "Twenty-seven, milord".

"Twenty-seven", he echoed her, scratching pensively his beard. "So, in which year were you born?".

Beyrith looked in panic at Fulor and mumbled something unintelligible.

"2091. Had you been born in 2091, you'd be twenty-seven years old today. But I find that hard to be believe because for one thing, you look much younger than that. What is more, your neighbours recall quite clearly your arrival in Caerdydd. They say it happened five years ago and that you were but a young girl at the time: some say fourteen years old, others say fifteen".

Fulor retreated further away from him, rubbed his hands together as he took a deep bow: "My Lord, it is not uncommon for a peasant girl to not know the year of her birth".

"Tis' true, milord!".

Éomer circled around the table until he stood between the two of them: "Right you are. But there's also another piece of story that I heard and found very, _very_ interesting. One that concerns Cenulf or, to be more precise, his wife Tidith. Do you want to hear it, Fulor?".

The man's eyes darted towards the door but he knew there was no way he could get there before him, so he just nodded.

"You see, Caerdydd's midwife was at the inn tonight and I daresay the woman really drank her fill. So much that when I asked her about your niece, she started to tell me the story of Cenulf and Tidith's second born instead. Seven years ago, Cenulf showed up at her door in the middle of the night and begged her to follow him at the farm. When she got there, she found Tidith lying in a pool of her own blood: the baby in her womb was turned upside down and it took her hours to bring him into this world. She told me she was sure Tidith would have died but instead, both mother and child survived. A happy ending you might call it, but with a twist because the woman assured me Tidith could never have borne another child after that night". Éomer took a further step forwards, Fulor one backwards: "Now, imagine my surprise when she told me that: not only I know very well that Cenulf and Tidith had _three_ sons but in fact their youngest one – Elcref was his name, forced me to give him a piggy back ride all the way here the day I helped them moving in. I remember telling Cenulf the boy was just as pig-headed as he was and there was such pride in the man's eyes. And that's where the story gets _really_ interesting because when I asked the midwife about Elcref, she gave me a name: Beyrith".

"That's ridiculous!", gasped Fulor, managing somehow a truthfully shocked look.

"Is it? Because you see, though no one spoke clearly very few around here believe your relationship with Beyrith to be appropriate for an uncle-niece pair. Do you want to know what I think, Fulor?", he asked, his voice getting dangerously low. "I think you are a degenerate and a pervert. I think you got that girl to warm your bed when she was barely more than a child. I think you got her pregnant and had her give up her baby to Cenulf and Tidith. I think they had no idea you were the father until they moved to Caerdydd. I think Cenulf confronted you about it but instead of running a sword through you like he should have done, he decided to bring his family back to the farm and as far as possible from you. Have I come close enough to the truth?".

Fulor's demeanour suddenly changed then. He squared his shoulders and glared brazenly at him, then turn his head to spit on the ground: "You forget yourself, Marshall. I was appointed by the King himself to lead this city: when I first came here, Caerdydd was barely more than a pile of rotten wood. It was under _my_ guidance that it prospered until becoming the second largest town in the East-mark; it was under _my_ guidance that it was fortified to protect its people from the terrors against which the likes of you fail over and over again. You think you can come here and kick me out of my own city? You can't! Your authority means nothing here!".

The dagger concealed in the sleeve of his tunic slid into his hand, the blade shining ominously in the pale moonlight filtering through the window: "Who said anything about kicking you out?".

For a man of his age, Fulor moved faster than he had anticipated: "Now Beyrith!", he cried as he rushed for the door.

Éomer made for going after him but strange noise had him turning around just in time to see a basket flying towards him. He instinctively raised a hand to protect himself but realized too late what was coming at him: the first snake wrapped around his hand and sunk his fangs into his forearm before he had had the time to do anything. He cursed, pulled himself free of the bite; he tried to catch Beyrith as she run past him, but she dashed left and away from his grasp. It was then that he felt something moving on his shoulders first, between his feet then: he reached for the damn beasts, tried to get rid of them but his hands were always one second too late and by the time he had finally stomped with all his strength on the last one of them, he realized he taken too many bites.

Way too many.

A severe pain started radiating around each wound and he could feel his hand swelling already. He stumbled out of the house and into the dark streets. Fulor and Beyrith were nowhere to be seen but the tavern was not far: he could see its lights, could hear the people celebrating inside. He was halfway there when the first heave forced him on his knees: he emptied his stomach inside an empty keg and with an almost unbearable effort, he managed to get back on his feet. A dull headache was tightening around his skull like a vice grip, yet he managed to make it to the tavern's entrance.

He pushed the door open and the last thing he heard, were the cries of a woman as he collapsed on top of her.

* * *

**Author's notes**: seriously, I don't know how I ended up here. I started this chapter having something completely different in mind, but the story just took an unexpected turn.

Though Grima has never been in favour of strengthening Rohan's ties to Gondor, of course he wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the situation to undermine Éomer's position. He doesn't fully know what has happened to Lothíriel, but it didn't escape him that Éomer was keen on going back home as soon as possible. Forcing him out of his way to investigate what happened at the Holbeck farm serves his purpose of complicating things as much as possible.

I had a bunch of ideas about Caerdydd and finally, I went for the worst-case scenario – namely, the most dramatic one. Further details will come in the next chapters, but I think it likely for someone like Éomer to decide he'd rather kill a man like Fulor. What he failed to consider though, was that Beyrith might have been so subjugated by the will of the man, to actually try save him.

Meanwhile, Lothíriel is having a hard time on her own. She can finally have all she ever wanted but ironically, it may just be too late for that.

_pineapple-pancake_: always glad to hear it!

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: thank you!

_Guest_: I was afraid this story had started a bit too slow, but hopefully the pace is now better. Happy you like the depth of characters as it's normally the part I enjoy the most when writing!

_SwanKnightofhteNorth_: glad you are not too silent in your cheering! :)

_Guest_: Runhild is very young and has quite the temper. I figured she wouldn't be so easy at forgiving Éomer! Hope you settled well in your new place, it's always a hell of a job to move into a new house!

_Guest_: it took way too long to come out. But if anything, they are finally on the same page and can progress together.

_Guest_: thank you!

_Aylatha_: I sent you a PM over the issue of words out of context, hopefully you got it :) As per Aragorn, I don't think he should be taken as example. I know average lifespan in Gondor should be between 80 and 100, but I didn't want to Gaeril to be _too_ old. She must have been fit enough to take care of her duties as a handmaid, but at the same time old enough to consider a ten days ride in the heart of winter out of her reach. I'm glad you're enjoying and please, do not hesitate to let me know about any mistake. I deeply appreciate all inputs!

_readergirl4985:_ yes, he was going exactly where we expected. But even if far apart, Éomer and Lothíriel are still making steps towards one another.

_Menelwen_: it's going to be a few more months before the events of the Ring War really come into play. Let's see where Éomer and Lothíriel will be by then! :)

_Mary07_: hopefully this was a fast-enough update - though Éomer and Lothíriel ae momentarily apart and both having their share of problems. The confrontation with Imrahil will take time but hopefully, the development of the relationship between Éomer and Lothíriel will make up for it! ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_Aldburg, May the 4th, 3018_

Lothíriel smiled when she recognized the sturdy figure standing in the doorway: "Come in, Gárwine! I'm ever so glad you found the time to pass by".

The man crossed the room in long strides but instead of bowing or kissing her hand, he drew her into a firm hug: "You gave us quite the scare", he spoke in her ear. "How are you feeling?".

Lothíriel gladly returned his embrace, locked her arms around his broad chest: she had never noticed it before, but there was something so deeply comforting in the way people of Rohan embraced physical contact as just another way to interact with each other. In Gondor, the presence of someone like Gárwine in her room would have been considered inappropriate, the way he had approached her scandalous. Yet in that moment, his touch was worth more than a thousand words: "Much better", she reassured him.

"How's your leg?".

"Fine, I guess. The stitches are a torture, but Frumgar says the wound is healing better than he had expected".

Gárwine exhaled and let himself fall in the chair next to her bed: "That's good news. Does that mean he expects you to make a full recovery?".

"He thinks the extent of irreversible damage should be minor and that the wound will only trouble me if I exert the leg too much. As far as I'm concerned, I'd call that a full recovery", declared Lothíriel, earning herself an amused look.

"Sure enough you are not letting that to upset you!".

"I can think of worse people to whom this could have happened. I mean, look at me: how often do you think I _exert my legs too much_?", said Lothíriel with a shrug of her shoulders. "Besides, it could have been worse. Way worse". A shiver run down her spine at the thought of it: she hadn't told anybody, but what precious sleep she had managed to get during the past few days, had been tormented by countless nightmares. Once, she had dreamt the wargs had smelled her down the ravine and followed her: her leg caught in the trap, all she could do was watch in horror as they pounced on her defenceless body. Another, she had dreamt she had not fallen from Rohiril's saddle: the wargs had slowly closed in on them until finally, one of them had leapt forward and sunk its fangs in her leg. Another one, she had dreamt Dúnor had been attacked instead. A horrific sequence of bloody images that tormented her every waking - and sleeping moment, and rarely ever abandoned her.

Perhaps guessing her thoughts, Gárwine stared at her with a smile that was both warm and encouraging at the same time: "What you did is quite remarkable. You know that, yes?".

"Remarkably stupid you mean", snorted Lothíriel.

"No, remarkably brave", he corrected her, all traces of laughter suddenly gone. "You found yourself facing a terrible danger, one that would have most men turn and flee with their tail between their legs. Yet you did not hesitate to set yourself up as a bait".

"It wasn't bravery. It all happened so fast I had no time to think about the consequences of my actions: I'd have fled and saved myself otherwise, believe me".

Gárwine's brows lifted in a look of genuine disbelief: "I'd normally call this false modesty, but I think you are just blissfully unaware of your own strength, Lothíriel".

She almost laughed then: she might have done something seemingly brave when she had tried to save Dúnor, but that hardly made her _strong_. For nineteen years she had been a spectator of her own life without even knowing it. Leaving Dol Amroth had felt like having her heart ripped out of her chest and yet the day of her wedding she had dutifully spoken her oath and had Éomer wanted, that night she'd have even let him have his way with her. For almost five months now, she had lived in the constant fear of falling prey to one of those crises that always reduced her to a sobbing, pathetic mess.

Runhild was strong. Lady Aldwyn was strong. But her?

Lothíriel recoiled when Gárwine's hand reached for hers: "Did Ides mention why I wished to speak with you?", she asked, unwilling to dwell any longer on _that_ day and her supposed strength.

"No", said Gárwine, leaning back in his chair and doing a much better job than herself at hiding his uneasiness for her recent outburst. "Though I was surprised you sent her and not Runhild or Wilrun instead".

"Runhild is not here – her aunt had an accident and she had to go help her out, and Wilrun is busy caring for her brothers. Besides, I don't think they would be happy to hear what I'm about to ask you".

Gárwine looked at her through narrowed eyes, his expression turning suddenly suspicious: "Why do I have a feeling I won't like it either?".

"It's nothing bad", she promised. "It's just… funny, really: I've spent the past three months locked in this room and refusing to ever leave it and now that I finally have an excuse to stay here without anyone faulting me for doing so, I long for the world outside of that door".

"You need to be patient. Lothíriel: nobody likes being bedridden, but it's the only way to ensure your wounds will heal properly".

"I know that, and I promise I'm not planning on running away or doing anything stupid again. But I'm tired of lying here and I'd like to make myself useful somehow".

"Caring for yourself is the best way to _make yourself useful_ right now".

Lothíriel huffed in exasperation. She knew the man – like pretty much everybody else, was trying to help her. But there were no appropriate words in the whole Arda to express just how frustrating and suffocating all those well-meant attentions were: "I have a few dozen stitches in my leg, an awful green bruise across my whole chest and countless more spread all over around. But my head is quite alright and I'd like to do something with it. Something that isn't thinking over and over again about those awful beasts and what they did to that poor child's parents. Something that isn't getting more and more angry with my father. Something that isn't regretting the way I wasted the past three months of my life".

The frown on Gárwine's face deepened. He stared intently at her, his head tilted on one side and his hands clasped firmly together: "What would you like to do?", he asked after what felt like an endless silence.

Lothíriel smiled and this time, it was her who reached for him: "Thank you, Gárwine!".

"I haven't agreed to anything yet", he was quick to curb her enthusiasm. "First tell me what you have in mind and then I'll think about it".

"Actually, I had hoped you could help me find some suitable task. I don't know much about running a household, but I'm quite sure it involves plenty of paperwork: isn't there something I could help you with?".

The moment she mentioned the word _paperwork_, Gárwine visibly relaxed. He scratched his beard and took a moment to consider her request: "To tell you the truth, this is all very new to me too. As I'm sure you know, it was Meregith who used to be in charge in Éomer's absence: she took care of his correspondence, filled in reports for him and pretty much run any errand that did not require his presence. This to say that there's definitely a lot of paperwork to do around here but alas, I know close to nothing about it. Éomer left in a hurry and if he had needed help with something, he did not say. However", he added as he saw the disappointment on her face, "I know the winter reports have been keeping him busy. He was supposed to send them out by the end of last month but as far as I know, he's lagging behind".

"Winter report?", asked Lothíriel, somewhat ashamed by her ignorance on the matter.

"Yes. At the end of the cold season, each village and settlement – no matter how big or small, has to report on their current situation. It may sound easy, but we are talking of dozens of places, some of which are inhabited by no more than a handful of people who can hardly read and write, let alone draft a report".

"When you say _current situation_, what do you mean exactly?".

"Everything. Population, food supplies, status of their crops, any other pressing need: livestock, weapons, wood, medicines… some villages get completely isolated during the winter and Éomer can hardly afford to visit them all once the snow melts. It would take him weeks - if not months, to do it. He relies on these accounts to plan for the months ahead and ensure that coming next winter, every village will be adequately prepped".

"And these accounts are then sent out to the King?".

"Not the account themselves - those stay in Aldburg, but rather a summary that provides an overview for the East-mark as a whole. I know Éomer was working on it and I'm quite sure he left all the relevant papers on his desk. We could have a look together and see if we can figure something out".

Though that was exactly the type of job she had had in mind, Lothíriel was reluctant to accept: "Don't you think Éomer will be upset when he finds out we went through his papers without his permission?".

"Upset?", snorted Gárwine: "Trust me, Lothíriel: if you manage to fill that summary for him, he'll be kissing the land you step on!".

* * *

When he awoke later that afternoon, Éomer felt as if a horse had trampled over his body and crushed every single bone he possessed. There was a pulsing pain inside his skull, his limbs were numb and he felt so impossibly weak.

"Look who's finally awake!".

Éomer winced and brought a hand to his forehead: "Would you please stop shouting? My head feels like it's about to explode…". Éothain sat back to front in an old wooden chair, swung lazily back and forth as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the bright crimson light filtering through the window. Only then did Éomer notice the four angry scratches running across his face: "What happened to you? You fought a lion or what?".

"More like a feral cat".

He groaned and probed his shoulder: it was sore, swollen, warm to the touch. There were no bandages but when his fingers slid further down towards the nape of his neck, he found two little wounds: not the usual cuts and gashes, but rather two tiny perfect holes. "What happened?", he asked.

"You don't remember anything?".

"We are in Edoras…no, Caerdydd", he corrected himself, the memory of the past few days coming back to him in disorderly flashes. "Grima sent us here to find out what happened to Cenulf", he remembered as he swung his legs down the bed. His left arm itched terribly and when he rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, Éomer found another pair of strange holes right under his wrist. He brushed a finger on them and suddenly, it all came back at once: "Damned snakes", he muttered, cringing at the memory of them crawling all over his body.

"Vipers, to be precise".

"What was Fulor doing with them?".

"He kept them for their poison. It's used in several concoctions and his list of buyers included half of Rohan's healers and herbalists – Frumgar too, it would appear".

Éomer simply nodded, the mention of vipers' venom bringing back a much older memory: years before – he had been but a fresh recruit at the time, he had been enjoying a refreshing swim in a lake up the mountains when a small group of poorly armed orcs had charged at him and his comrades. They hadn't stood a chance but in the midst of the battle, a blade had gotten him right through his side. He had started bleeding profusely and after rushing him to the nearest village, the local healer had had the not so brilliant idea to inform him he would administer him some viper's venom – or rather a much-diluted version of it. His mind weakened by the blood loss, he had started having terrible visions of the man being some sort of evil wizard who was trying to turn him into a goblin. His friends had been forced to tie him up – and eventually even to gag him, and the whole incident had become matter of teasing for many, many years. "Bema, how many times was I bitten?", he asked, trying to resist the urge to scratch not only his shoulder and arm, but his leg too!

"Nine times. But there were only four snakes, so half of the bites were probably dry", explained Éothain. He crossed his arms on the back of the chair and shot him an angry look: "What happened, Éomer? I mean, one moment you were drinking with us and the next you were gone from the tavern. Why didn't you tell me what the midwife had told you? Why didn't you tell me what you were planning to do?".

"Do I need your permission to deal with an old pervert?".

Éothain rolled his eyes: "Right, because things went so smoothly…".

"How was I supposed to know the man kept vipers in his house?", he snapped.

"You couldn't, which is why one would advise caution. Men like Fulor are capable of everything and you know it!", he growled back, growing visibly angry. "Besides, do you have any idea the amount of troubles you'd have caused by killing him that way?".

Éothain was lucky to be out of his reach because right then, he'd have liked very much to throw a punch in his stupid face: "Since when you are so keen at defending the likes of him?".

"I am not defending him! All I'm saying is there were better ways to deal with him, ways that wouldn't have given Grima further ground to question your loyalty".

Éomer hid his face in his trembling hands and took a deep breath: it burned to admit it, but there was truth to Éothain's words. A deranged Marshall murdering a King-appointed official without any trial and without even discussing the matter with the local elders. What better chance for his uncle's advisor to accuse him of plotting against the crown and finally strip him of his role! "You are right", he admitted. "I should have known better than rushing in there that way, but I was out of mind: after speaking with the midwife, I bided my time and sneaked out of the tavern. Fulor knew it was only a matter of time until we learned the truth and was planning to flee under the cover of darkness. I confronted him, placed myself between him and the girl in the hope to protect her. Little did I know that I was turning my back to danger".

"Beyrith tossed the snakes on you?".

"Yes. She rushed after Fulor then: I tried to catch her but did not manage. That's when I got bitten on the neck, I think", recounted Éomer. "By the time I got rid of all the snakes, Fulor and Beyrith were gone and the poison was starting to set in. I remember dragging myself until the tavern and collapsing on some unfortunate woman, then it all went black".

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Éothain managed an amused grin: "I know I have luxurious hair but mistaking _me_ for a woman? I am flattered".

"That was you? No, impossible: I remember a woman's screams…".

"Oh, that was the midwife. After she told me what she had told you, I guessed you must have gone after Fulor and decided to come looking for you. She said she wished to come too, that a woman's presence might have helped Beyrith. We were about to leave the tavern when you suddenly burst in".

"Damn, I don't remember a thing. What happened then?".

"We brought you to the healer, then went after Fulor and Beyrith. In their panicked retreat they got separated and shortly after dawn, we found the girl wandering in the wood east of the village. I sighed in relief when I saw her alone and unhurt but the moment I approached her, she started screaming and yelling. I tried to calm her down, got this little gift in return", said Éothain, pointing at his badly scratched face.

"That was Beyrith's doing?".

"Oh, not only this!", he grumbled. "When I tried to get a hold of her, she started kicking and throwing punches. I'll spare you the details but be warned I may not be fit for riding – or entertaining women, for a couple of days at least!".

"That bad?".

"Yes!", cried Éothain. "It took three of us to restrain her! We brought her back to the village, then went looking for Fulor. It was late morning by then and our chances at finding him were getting slim. As it turned out however, the man was closer than we thought: we found him less than a mile from here, the bastard did us a favour and hanged himself to a tree…".

Éomer found no solace in the news of Fulor's death. Instead, he felt a deep sense of unrest mounting inside him and judging by Éothain's expression, he wasn't the only one to feel that way: "How could this happen?", he asked, pacing relentlessly around the room. "Two hundred people live in this city and not a single one of them ever thought of doing something to save that poor girl! Now, they pretend to be shocked, act as if they had no idea what was happening under their very nose!".

Éomer wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and leant back against the wall: "Fulor considered Caerdydd _his_ city", he remembered. "He ruled it with an iron fist for nearly two decades and to the most, a warm bed inside sturdy walls is worth more than the life of some poor orphan".

"You should have seen her when we told her he had killed himself. She yelled, cursed us, then passed out. Hasn't spoken a word since…".

"He took her in when she was little more than a child, Éothain. Frightened, scared, starved. He put a roof above her head, ensured she'd never go hungry again and for the past five years, he has been her whole world. He gave her what she craved for and without her even realizing, he took everything she had to give".

Éothain's hands were closed in tight fists, his eyes fixed on his boots: "The midwife took her in. She says forcing her to leave Caerdydd would only make things worse and promised to take care of her".

"What do you think?".

"I think I'd rather have her as far as possible from this cursed city, of course. But Beyrith won't come with us – not unless we force her, and I reckon the midwife seems to be the only one capable of reaching her, of speaking to her without her throwing another tantrum".

Éomer stared pensively out of the window and considered carefully his options. The obvious choice was taking Beyrith to Aldburg: there she would be well taken care of and he could ensure no one ever laid a finger on her. But given what she had done to both him and Éothain, he doubted she'd let them take her away without putting up a fight. And what was the point of saving her, if that caused her an even bigger trauma? Maybe the midwife was right, maybe all Beyrith needed was time to elaborate what she had gone through. And if she could do it in Caerdydd better than in Aldburg, who was he to decide otherwise? "Let her stay for the time being. Speak to the midwife, tell her I'll have someone come and check on her as often as I can but unless she decides otherwise, I won't force Beyrith to leave", spoke Éomer with great effort.

"What of Caerdydd? The elders have already gathered today: they want to know when you will inform the King and who will lead the city until a new ealdorman in appointed".

Éomer tossed his head back, hit the wall with more force than he had intended. He could not avoid informing Grima of Fulor's passing, but he had to plan carefully _when_ and _how_ he would do so: Caerdydd was an important trade centre and he could not afford to let it fall into the hands of one of Wormtongue's spies. "Tell them I'll do it as soon as we are back in Aldburg and that until things are sorted out, one of my men– Elffa is the best candidate, will remain here to act as my deputy and run the city. And make clear that if I ever catch wind of something like this ever being tolerated again, I'll make them all very, very sorry", he hissed.

"Shouldn't you be the one to tell them?".

"I'd rather not", he muttered as he lied down. "Tell the man we ride for Aldburg tomorrow at first light".

"I'm afraid that won't be possible", Éothain informed him, a nervous smile plastered on his tanned face: "The healer says it will take at least another day for your body to expel the toxins and you shan't be able to ride until then".

Éomer turned to face the wall, pressed half of his face into the pillow in an attempt to soothe the pain in his head: no matter how sick and wrecked he felt, he didn't want to spend another day in that awful place. He wanted to ride home, he wanted to have a few days' respite from grief and sorrow, he wanted to forget but for a short little time about the evil at their doorstep: "I'll be fine, don't worry".

Éothain's steps echoed in the empty room. He walked to the door, then halted and turned back: "Lothíriel will understand. I know you promised her you'd be back soon, but she'll understand why you couldn't keep your word. And I'm sure she'd rather see you coming back with a few days' delay but in one piece, than half-dead in your saddle".

He did not answer nor move. He pretended to be asleep until finally, Éothain left the room and locked the door behind him.

* * *

Eofor descended the stairs one careful step at a time. He was flushed red and a drop of sweat was trickling down his brow. Not because of the weight he was carrying – she hoped not at least, but rather because he seemed terrified of what could go wrong.

She should have felt sorry for the distress she was causing him but instead, all Lothíriel could think of was how _good_ it felt. To be out of bed. To be wearing something that wasn't a nightgown. To leave her room behind – even if just for a few hours. And above all, it felt good to have a purpose, a reason to stand up in the morning!

She knew they had arrived when Ides sprinted ahead to hold the door open. She looked around with some interest, but she had to admit Éomer's study was nothing like she had expected: it looked like her father's study…right after a hurricane had blown right through it!

"Oh my, I suppose someone should have warned you that this place can be a little messy", said Ides, noticing the astonishment on her face.

_Messy _did not do it any justice. The desk was covered in books, piles of papers and old candles. Sitting on top of everything was a map, held in place by – in order: an empty mug, a stone, a half-carved piece of wood and some cutlery. The shelves too were packed with documents and parchments and she'd be very surprised if there were any criteria in the way they had been stored. She spotted a shirt hanging on a chair, a pair of boots lying under a red couch and at least a dozen crumpled papers tossed around the room: "How can he work in such place?", she wondered aloud while Eofor laid her on a chair and propped her leg on a cushioned footstool.

"That has been topic of discussion for years, believe me!", laughed Ides. "Shall I fetch you some tea while you wait for Gárwine?".

"Yes, please".

The girl bowed and rushed out of the room, leaving her alone with an overly concerned Eofor: "Are you comfortable?", he asked as he probed her leg. "Perhaps I shall bring you some more pillows…".

Lothíriel bit her lip and tried her very best not to burst out laughing: she didn't know what Runhild had told him prior to her departure, but Eofor had since transformed into an anxious mother hen and needless to say, he had not been happy about her new endeavour. Not even Gárwine's reassurance and Frumgar's approval had managed to put his mind at ease and when earlier that morning she had asked him to move her to Éomer's study, he had paled visibly and started muttering under his breath that it was a _bad, bad idea_. "I'm as comfortable as I can possibly be. I will call you if I need something, don't worry".

In the time he needed to cover the small distance that separated him from the door, Eofor turned back three times to stare at her with a concerned – and almost comical, look. Once he was finally out, Lothíriel exhaled and allowed herself an amused laughter: Eofor was such a fine young man and for the life of her, she could not understand why Runhild was not interested in him. He was a thousand times better than any of the boys she had flirted with and yet, when she had asked her about him, all she had gotten was a sceptical – and somewhat very scornful snort! She still hoped things might change but according to Wilrun, it was a helpless situation.

While she waited for Gárwine to join her, Lothíriel started digging into the papers in front of her. Éomer had split the winter reports into four different piles and the first thing she noticed, was that there were huge differences in the way they had been filed: some looked neat, the calligraphy not elegant but easily comprehensible at least; some were sloppier and barely readable; and others were not written at all, resorting instead to abstract symbols to describe the status of their supplies. Lothíriel produced a bundle of papers out of her pocket and examined closely the content on the first page: Runhild had taught her a lot about the Rohirric language but alas, she had told her almost nothing of its written form. For such reason, the evening before she had taken advantage of Eofor's kindness and asked him to translate into the Rohirric form of Cirth a long list of words she thought she might have needed.

Wheat. Hay. Timber. Leather. Iron. And the list went on and on…

Comparing the words written in the accounts to those in Eofor's list, Lothíriel realized with a thrill of excitement that it might have just worked and when Gárwine finally arrived, she looked up with a triumphant smile on her face. She froze however, when she realized it was not him who was standing in the doorway: "What are you doing here?" asked Meregith, staring sternly down at her.

Lothíriel knew that moment would have come, but she had hoped she'd have had more time to prepare for it, more time to figure how she felt about Aldburg' housekeeper. The woman had played a crucial role at making her life a living nightmare: she had ensured she'd always feel like an unwanted guest, never lost an opportunity to belittle her and make her feel like she was nothing more than a spoiled little brat. She had played wisely on her own insecurities, mined what little confidence she possessed with her continuous jabs and quips. That she had refused to send a search party, had not come as a shock to her. To learn of the reason for her resentment however, had been… difficult. Labelling a person as inherently _evil_ was simple, hating on someone like Meregith easy. But to find out that her spiteful words and blind hatred were born out of one of the worst types of sorrow a person could ever experience, made things terribly more complicated.

A part of her was confident there was no way they could ever ger along, while another desperately wished it was possible. Because there was no way they could live under the same roof unless they accepted each other's presence but especially because based on what she had gathered, Meregith had been to Éomer what Gaeril had been to her. More than a housekeeper, more than a friend. She was part of what little family he had left and how could she ever blame him for wishing there was a way to mend things with her, for hoping she could change?

"I am waiting for Gárwine. We…I", she corrected herself, "thought I could help Éomer while he's away by filling this report for him".

"That's a ridiculous idea. You'll end up messing with his documents and then he'll be forced to start over", she told her. Then, as if suddenly realizing that was the type of behaviour which had gotten them there in the first place, she managed a stretched smile: "You should be resting. No reason to stress yourself over such matters".

The words hung in Lothíriel's mouth, but she knew she had to spill them out: "I know my arrival here has caused you more hurt than I could ever imagine and for what is worth, I'm sorry". Meregith's eyes widened imperceptibly, a tremor seemed to shake her body. She did not utter a word but perhaps - Lothíriel thought, it was because she could not bring herself to speak of her late daughter with her: "I'm just trying to help", she offered.

Meregith took the papers from her hands, placed them back in their respective piles: "I know your intentions are good, but you need to understand that given the gravity of the situation, scribbling all over Éomer's documents is the least helpful thing you could do. Did he tell you why he had to leave Aldburg with such haste?".

"He said he had an audience with the King…".

"Yes. One where he will have to answer for what happened to _you_", she informed her. "Éomer has dedicated his whole life to this country, sacrificed everything he had for us and now, we might just loose him. Not because he perished in battle while trying to defend us, but because someone at court might hold him responsible for _your_ actions. What do you think will happen then?".

Lothíriel felt her hands starting to sweat, wished she could stand only to kick herself for her own stupidity. Of course her escape attempt would cause him problems: it would have caused them if she had succeeded, and it caused them now too! She was the daughter to the Prince of Dol Amroth, niece to the Steward of Gondor himself: had something happened to her, had she died in those woods, the alliance between their countries would have died with her. A month ago, she wouldn't have cared about it. But now she could no longer ignore the significance of it: what if things got worse? What if more wargs and orcs started roaming those lands? What if Rohan called on its allies and they failed to answer just because their marriage had fallen apart? People might die – people like Dúnor and his parents, and all because of her actions! "I-I had no idea, he d-didn't mention anything…", stammered Lothíriel, her breath getting short and her throat tight.

Meregith kneeled beside her and the expression on her face was one she had never seen before. There was softness, kindness even: "Of course he didn't, he's Éomer", she told her, her voice almost cracking with emotion. "I owe you an apology, Lothíriel. When you first arrived here, all I could think of was that had it not been for you, my sweet Dawyn would have still been alive. But what happened to her is not your fault and I see it now that I have wronged you terribly. And for that, _I_ am sorry".

"W-what now, Meregith? What can I do to help Éomer out of this mess?", asked Lothíriel, her cheeks burning and her fingers shaking. "I-I could write a letter to the King…".

"To tell him what?".

"That I take responsibility for my actions, that what happened to me wasn't Éomer's fault at all!".

Meregith stroked gently her cheek and for a moment, she almost got her: she thought it was redemption she was seeking; she dared believing the path to a peaceful coexistence would not be a winding one; she hoped there was a way Éomer could mend his relationship with her. But when she spoke next, Lothíriel realized the woman cared nothing about any of that: "It's too late for that, don't you see? You've become a liability for Éomer and it matters not that he's not at fault, it matters not that _you_ put yourself in that situation: as long as you stay here, there will be people who won't hesitate to use you – and what _you_ did, against him. Éomer will tell you that it does not matter, he will tell you that you need not worry but if you care about him, if you care about the man who risked his neck to come save you, then you should leave Lothíriel. Tell him you wish to go back home and…".

"No", said Lothíriel, finding in herself a confidence she did not know she possessed. She gazed straight into Meregith's eyes, her resolve growing stronger with each further word she spoke: "I refuse to be a liability and I'm sick of people playing me around, using me as a pawn to fulfil their own interests. You wanted me dead and now, you are settling for the next best thing: seeing me gone for good. But I won't go anywhere, Meregith. I'll stay in Aldburg, I'll make things right and no matter how hard it will be and how many times I will fail, I will earn my place here".

Meregith bent forward, her hand indulging on her face and her words barely more than a whisper in her ear: "You'll never be one of us, _Princess_".

* * *

**Authors' notes:** little transition chapter before reuniting Éomer and Lothíriel. Lothíriel made up her mind and finally understood that the only way to move forward, is to come out of her shell and take the reins of her life. Unwittingly, Meregith might have just re-enforced her will with her words. As per Éomer, months of patrolling and daily struggles – topped with everything that happened to Lothíriel, his encounter with Grima and the terrible things he uncovered in Caerdydd, are taking their toll and now more than ever, he longs for _home_. A place where he can seek shelter from the misery surrounding him and find the strength to continue fighting through every day.

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: at least Éomer has learned not to underestimate your opponent, no matter how weak he might look like!

_vilaspa_: I'm glad you're enjoying it!

_Katia 0203_: glad I managed to find something original! Luckily, he's alright and just needs to rest for a while. I wish that too, believe me. But I'm a slow writer these days and sometimes, I get lost in grammar and spelling (even so, I know there are plenty of mistakes in my stories). But if anything, knowing there's someone hoping for faster updates keeps me motivated to go on :)

_SwanKnightoftheNorth_: thank you, your review definitely got me smiling! Éomer will be fine and though he ended up being away from Aldburg for way longer than he had expected, at least Lothíriel has used her time wisely and understood what she needs to do to get herself out of her misery.

_tyskvakyrja_: oh my, your review surely had me shedding a tear too. I hope life is a happier place today than it was back then when this happened: in the end, that's really all that matters. And yes, Éomer and Lothíriel are progressing even now that they are separated. It only remains to be seen what happens once they are reunited. I definitely agree with you that what Éomer did was wrong and utterly despicable. We shall see whether it'll come back haunting him like prophesized by Théodred…

_almythea_: takes more than that to take him out ;)

_WildBright_: Éomer has knowingly taken a big risk by allowing her to stay and – it would appear at this point, Meregith has no intention whatsoever to change attitude. Runhild will be back in the next chapters, so we'll definitely see more of her temper and of what she has to say of Éomer and Lothíriel's evolving relationship. As per Dúnor, I haven't forgotten him and I'll definitely get back to him - though I'm not sure how big of a part he will play. Thank you for your beautiful review and stay safe too!


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_Aldburg, May the 6th, 3018_

In spite of his best intentions, it still took Éomer another further day to recover from his encounter with Fulor's vipers.

Not that he hadn't tried to leave Caerdydd at dawn – just like he had told Éothain, but his attempt had been short lived and ended up with him falling face first to the ground and earning himself a nasty gash on his brow. The only positive thing about the whole incident was that there had been no one there to witness it, but judging by the look Éothain had given him upon seeing his face, he suspected it was regrettably clear anyway. If anything, spending an additional day in Caerdydd had given him the chance to have a lengthy talk with Elffa: he regretted having left him behind, but the man was Lady Aldwyn's nephew and coming from a family with a long history of trading, he was the best candidate to temporarily rule a place of such prominent commercial relevance.

Éomer had also given some thought on how he'd approach Grima about what happened in Caerdydd and one thing was clear: he could not afford beating around the bush because the news of Fulor's death would surely reach Edoras in a matter of mere days. Coming to think about it, having Elffa with him had been a real stroke of luck: Lady Aldwyn was surely going to vouch for him and although her family did not have a seat in the Council anymore, it still held enough influence to convince its members that Elffa's temporary assignment was in the best of everyone's interests. Grima wouldn't be pleased, but he doubted he'd risk speaking openly against her: over the course of the past year, his uncle's chief advisor had progressively cut most of Rohan's ties to Gondor. Hiding behind the bogey of their Southern neighbours eying greedily their lands – a ridiculous idea to be sure, he had successfully managed to kill all but a few of the trading agreements they had with Minas Tirith and the consequences had not taken long to show. Rohan's market had grown empty and people had learned to live with less.

Bolstered by her family's reputation – and by the fact she controlled some of the Mark's largest iron mines, Lady Aldwyn had pretty much decided to swim against the tide and not only had she refused to cancel her longstanding agreements, but she had gone as far as negotiating new ones. Grima had tried to stop her, but through a thick net of favours and gifts, Lady Aldwyn had always managed to keep the remaining members of the King's council on her side. He supposed one might have called it _bribery_, but given that it was common people who benefited the most out of it, he was more than willing to close an eye – or even two, about it.

It was the mid-afternoon of an unusually warm day when his party finally came in sight of Aldburg and the moment the sounds of horns rose from the city, Éomer sighed in relief: _home at last, _he thought to himself as he spurred Firefoot forward, already savouring the moment he could get rid of those damn clothes and jump into an ice-cold bath. Just like Caerdydd's healer had predicted, he now felt much better: he wasn't dizzy anymore, his stomach had been able to handle a hefty breakfast and his head had stopped aching. What hadn't improved though, were his wounds: though the stiffness and the swelling was gone, the bites still itched terribly and the moment his feet touched the ground, he couldn't help but rubbing vigorously the one on under his wrist. Seeing Éothain approaching him, he shot him a guilty look: "I'm not scratching!", he defended himself.

But the man did not pay him any attention, his eyes fixed on an undefined point ahead of him, a dumb expression on his face: "I think I'll take Firefoot to the stables and unsaddle him".

"Having suicidal thoughts or what?", asked Éomer, knowing all too well his mount's temper.

Éothain grabbed him by the shoulder – the wounded one, which didn't help at all with the whole _itching_ issue, and dragged him aside. With Firefoot now out of his line of sight, Éomer suddenly realized what the source of all that commotion was: "What the…", he started to say, staring in astonishment at Eofor coming out of the hall with Lothíriel in his arms. He put her down right at the top of the stairs, patiently waited until she had found her balance, then took a reluctant step back.

Éomer pushed Éothain out of his way, but the man's grip suddenly tightened: "If you are planning of getting up there and yell to her face how inconsiderate it is for her to be out of bed, may I urge you to reconsider your plan?".

Éomer shook him off and unable to take his eyes off Lothíriel, slowly climbed the stairs: she was pale and worryingly thin, but Bema help him if she wasn't the most beautiful sight to come home to! She wore a plain red gown, her hair was loose on her shoulders and though obviously nervous, in her eyes Éomer saw a glint he had never seen before. When Ides passed her the traditional welcome cup, she took it with trembling hands, inevitably spilling half of the content on the ground. She muttered something then, something that sounded suspiciously alike a Rohirric curse, but of course he must have been mistaken. He picked up his pace and in three long strides, he was standing right in front of her.

Leaning with one hand on a walking stick, Lothíriel lifted the cup in front of her: "Welcome home, my Lord", she greeted him, staring at him with apprehensive eyes. And he stared back at her, his arms hanging by his side, unable to utter a single word. Perhaps mistaking his silence for anger, Lothíriel turned a bright pink and rushed to explain herself: "Frumgar says I can stand, provided I don't put weight on the injured leg. And please don't be mad at Eofor: I forced him to…".

The rest of the sentence was lost as he pulled her abruptly to him: "You have no idea how good it is to see you out here, Lothíriel", he whispered in her ear, holding her firmly against his chest and planting a soft kiss on her brow. He knew that public display of affection was probably embarrassing her beyond measure, but it couldn't be helped: after dealing with Grima's veiled accusation and threats, after all the awful things he had uncovered in Caerdydd, after the guilt for returning home so late despite what he had promised her, to be welcomed that way was something that not even in his best dreams he'd have dared hoping for!

When he felt her hands slowly creeping up between them, Éomer instinctively held his breath: the walking stick fell to the ground and he was only vaguely aware of his tunic being soaked wet with was left of the mead. Lothíriel's arms locked around his neck and though she was panting and shaking, she held onto him with a strength he didn't know she possessed. "What did you say?", he asked, unsure she had just mumbled against the filthy fabric of his shirt.

"I said I read your letter and wish father had given it to me".

Éomer smiled and held her a little tighter: "I take it you didn't find it too disappointing?".

Lothíriel pulled back and looked at him with a deep frown: "It was a beautiful letter. I don't know why you'd think it disappointing", she told him, leaning lightly on him for balance. Realizing only then that the welcome cup was practically empty, the blush on her cheeks deepened: "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I managed to spill the mead all over the place… and on you as well", she added, staring mortified at his clothing.

"My tunic was already so filthy that a little mead will hardly make things any worse", he told her with a wink, snapping the cup from her hand and gulping down the few remaining drops of mead.

Lothíriel smiled but then, something behind him caught her attention: "Oh dear, what is _she_ doing already here?", she asked, her cheeks growing visibly pale.

Éomer turned around but aside from an overly smug Éothain, he couldn't see anybody else headed their way: "Who?".

"Runhild!", Lothíriel shrieked, bringing a hand to her face: "She'll murder me – and you, and Eofor too!, when she sees me here!".

"Where is she? I can't see her…".

"She just left the stables, she'll turn around that corner any moment now!", said Lothíriel, pointing at the smith's workshop located a the far end of the square: "She left a few days ago to go help her aunt and wasn't supposed to come back until next week. She has no idea I'm out of bed!".

"I thought you said Frumgar gave you his approval…".

"Oh, and you think Runhild will care about it?".

Fair point, he had to admit. Lothíriel was by now as pale as a sheet while behind her, Eofor looked like a man on the gallows: "Has she seen you already?".

"N-no, I don't think so. I bet we could already hear her screaming otherwise…".

Éomer grinned and with no warning whatsoever, he whisked Lothíriel in his arms and hurried inside the hall: "There are times when a strategic retreat is the best tactic!", he told her as he climbed the stairs leading to the upper floor.

On her part, Lothíriel was at least no longer pale. Indeed, she was as red as a cherry and it took her a while to find her voice again: "No, wait!", she told him when he had almost reached her room. "Can you bring me to your study, please?".

"To my study?".

"I'll explain once we are there", promised Lothíriel, prompting him back the way they came from.

Though hesitant, Éomer did as bid and descended to the ground floor: his study was located in the opposite wing, which meant they had no choice but crossing the main hall if they wanted to get there. But as he suspected, they were too late for that: "Good afternoon, Eofor", he heard Runhild saying, to which Lothíriel gasped horrified.

Éomer swirled around and went up again, rushed inside the first room he came across. The door closed with an annoyingly loud squeak and then, they were left standing in pitch darkness, listening with bated breath to the sound of Runhild's approaching footsteps. The ridiculousness of their predicament becoming suddenly hard to ignore, Éomer felt mirth bubbling inside him: "Don't you dare!", warned Lothíriel, her finger tapping insistently against his chest. But there was laughter in her voice too and it took Éomer all his self-restraint not to burst out.

Runhild passed their room and walked further down the corridor. The sound of her steps faded and when someone suddenly knocked on their door, they got both so spooked that Éomer almost dropped Lothíriel: "The way is clear for now", whispered Ides before hurrying away. Éomer stepped cautiously out the room and for the fourth time that day, he found himself climbing those damn stairs: concerned that upon finding Lothíriel's room empty Runhild would rushed back towards the hall, he sprinted ahead and by the time they had made it to his study, they were both laughing breathlessly.

"I'm sorry, Éomer. I should have probably simply spoken to her", said Lothíriel and he'll be damned if she hadn't the most beautiful, infectious smile he had ever seen!

"Where shall I sit you? On the sofa?", he asked her, trying not to stare too bluntly.

"By the desk, if you don't mind".

Éomer nodded and it was only then that he noticed a few subtle changes: though still messy, the room appeared slightly tidier than usual and between the piles of papers he had accumulated on his desk, a small empty space had been carved: "Have you been working here?".

* * *

Still giggling from their narrowly successful escape, Lothíriel took her time to adjust her position on the chair: she smoothened the skirt of her gown, shifted her leg until it was comfortably resting on the stool, pulled back her hair and fixed them in a loose tail. The realization that she had practically stolen Éomer's place only occurred to her when she saw him taking a seat on the other side of the desk: "I am the one who should be sitting there I suppose…", she apologized with a nervous smile.

Éomer waved her concerns away and stretched his neck to peek at the paper in front of her: "May I?".

Lothíriel nodded and passed him the document she had been working so hard on for the past two days. She had honestly been terrified of that moment: what if he overreacted when finding out she had stuck her nose where it didn't belong? What if following his confrontation with the King, he'd be upset to see there was something else she had managed to mess up? Meregith might have hated her, but that didn't mean her allegations were baseless and as she observed Éomer scrolling quickly through the content of the first page of her report, Lothíriel couldn't help but fiddling anxiously with the quill in front of her: "I worked on it together with Gárwine: we used last year's account as reference and tried finishing what you had already started", she explained with a trembling voice. Éomer flipped through the remaining pages, his brow furrowed and his head shaking: "I-I didn't touch your version, so if what I did is wrong you can restart from there. I also noted down how you split the various accounts", said Lothíriel, waving a paper in the air, "and I can re-arrange them the same way if…".

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to fill that half- page? Days – if not weeks. And now you are telling me you did all of this over the course of what, two or three days?".

"Less than two, actually".

Éomer's brooding expression rapidly melted into one of pleased disbelief: "When I saw you out there I thought the day could not possibly get any better, but I obviously stand corrected!".

"You're not mad then?".

"Mad? What for? For sparing me the agony of a week-worth of paperwork? For cutting the delay with which I'll send this out?", snorted Éomer. Reaching across the desk, he gently took her hand: "Just promise me you didn't tire yourself out to do it".

"Gárwine will tell you that I did, but it's not true", she laughed softly: "I actually found it interesting: I learned more of the East-mark in these past two days than ever before!".

"Like what?", asked Éomer, obviously amused by her enthusiasm.

"Well", she started to say, unrolling a map of Rohan in front of her, "To start with, I learned that the East-mark encompasses portions of various other regions. There's the Eastemnet over here, from which you've received only four – rather short, accounts: I asked Gárwine about it and he explained that this region is mainly populated by herdsman living a nomadic existence. Then there's the Eastfold, which lies between thee White Mountains and the Entwash: most of it consists in tall grasslands, but there are also a few hilly, wooden areas. By comparing last years' accounts to the most recent ones, I noticed a sharp decline in population in this cluster of villages", she explained, her finger tapping on an empty area located halfway between the Entwash and the Folde. "Gárwine told me there has been a fever outbreak last autumn that claimed many lives – especially among children and elders, and sadly, many settlements have been abandoned. Last but not least, most of metal extraction takes place in this area at the foot of the mountains, where several iron mines are located".

Éomer stared pensively at her, then stood and began rummaging on one of the shelfs behind her: "Here", he said, passing her what appeared to be another map of Rohan.

No, not of Rohan - realized Lothíriel as she unrolled it, but rather of the East-mark. And a detailed one at that! "Oh my, I wished I had known about this. It would have made my life so much easier!".

"I know, only larger villages are flagged in the other map but this", said Éomer, leaning with his arms on the desk, "has everything: down to the tiniest little settlement!".

Lothíriel pulled it a little closer and examined closely the area around Aldburg, her eye drawn immediately by five familiar letters: "This is the village where Harn and the Gondorian merchants stopped for the night. I remember passing it shortly before noon", she said, pointing at the little town of Lewes. She traced with her finger the Great West Road, headed South and towards the Mering Stream: "You must have found me somewhere around here", she guessed.

Éomer took her hand and pulled it further west on the map: "A couple of miles south of Lewes, there's a fork", he explained. "On the left, the Great West Road heads South while on the right, there's a path that leads to a number of isolated farms".

Lothíriel paused, her mind wrestling with the meaning of those words: "I… took a wrong turn", she realized. "That's why I never met Harn and the others, that's why the landscape looked nothing like what I recalled from when we ride from Minas Tirith. Valar, how could I possibly be that stupid!", she snapped.

She felt anger mounting but when Éomer spoke, his voice deep and his gaze as warm as the touch of his hand upon hers, her heart almost missed a beat: "That wrong turn almost got you killed. But it also saved Dúnor's life, Lothíriel".

Her eyes fixed on the unmarked spot on the map, Lothíriel held Éomer's hand a little tighter: he was right. Had she managed to stay on the Great West Road and catch up with the Gondorian merchants, she'd be in Minas Tirith now, planning how to get to her aunt and totally unaware of the scheming that had taken place behind her – and Éomer's back. And as per Dúnor, his lifeless body would lay next to the remains of his parents, a life torn away too soon.

Encountering those wargs, seeing with her own eyes those dismembered corps, falling down that ravine and even stepping into that trap and losing Rohiril… it seemed impossible to believe, but perhaps some good had come out of it. Dúnor was alive and yes, she might have lost her chance of getting back to her blithe Gondorian life. But what was that life if not an illusion, a lie, the privilege of someone having no other merit than being born into royalty: "Listen Éomer, there's something I need to ask you. Did you… did you have any problems in Edoras?", she inquired him.

Éomer seemed taken aback: "Problems?".

"Yes. You said you had an audience with the King and since you were delayed so, I thought perhaps you had to deal with unexpected troubles. Troubles caused by me, that is", she admitted.

"Why would you think so?", asked Éomer, staring at her with a suspicious face.

Lothíriel chewed nervously on her lip: "I heard…things".

"Such as?", he prompted her.

"Such as you been called to Edoras to answer for what happened to me".

Éomer snapped up, his hand abruptly deserting hers: "Where and from whom did you hear that?".

"N-no one!", she hurried to say: "It was just…bits and pieces I heard around the hall. Gárwine refused to talk to me about it, so I'm guessing it must be true…".

Though her vague explanation was obviously unconvincing, Éomer chose not to press her any further. He went back to his chair and when he spoke next, his words felt like a punch in the guts: "It's true". She made for saying something, but he raised a hand to silence her: "I don't want to hear you apologizing. I only want you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say, ok?".

Trying her very best to resist the urge to bite on her nails, Lothíriel gave him an anxious nod.

"The situation at court is… complicated. Over the course of the past couple years, the King has grown weak, so much that at times even _I_ have troubles recognizing him. It's as if his mind is gradually drifting away from his body and there's nothing we can do to keep him with us". Éomer paused then, his eyes fixed on her but away at the same time: "One of his Councillors – Grima is his name, has risen to a position of power. He has been my uncle's chief advisor for many years but now, he's practically ruling the country in his stead. Long have I wondered what his motives are and even though I have no proof of foul play or treason, one thing I know for sure: he's no friend of Rohan. He cares not for our country, he cares not for our people and he would do anything to eliminate those who stand in his way. He keeps my cousin and I on a short leash: he denies us the help we need to better protect our land and when things start going south, he puts the blame on us. Had I not been the King's nephew, had my cousin not had my back, he'd have already gotten rid of me. But that does not mean he has given up and when he heard about what happened to you, he tried to use it against me. He accused me of having deliberately sabotaged our marriage to compromise our alliance with Gondor, which is of course ridiculous", he told her with an unexpected little grin: "I did because I'm a moron and an idiot!".

"Guess that makes two of us", whispered Lothíriel.

Éomer circled around the desk and moved her chair just enough so that he could kneel in front of her: "Holding me accountable for what happened it's fair, Lothíriel".

"But it's not your f…".

"No, it's not my fault your father chose to marry us that way. But this is _my_ home, and I should have cared better for you: not because of the political importance of our marriage, but because you are my wife", he told her, his hand cupping gently her face. "Don't feel guilty for Grima's words and machinations, Lothíriel: had you died in those woods, the man wouldn't have batted an eye. Actually, he might have just thrown a party and yes, he tried to use your escape attempt against me, but guess what? He failed. I am still here, I am still Third Marshall of the Riddermark and I don't know about you, but I have no intention whatsoever to give up now".

Lothíriel gave him a watery smile: "I don't want to either. But I also don't want to be a burden and if you think you'd be better off without me…".

"I don't know where you got such silly ideas from, but no: I wouldn't be better off without you. I mean, look at this place: I might just drown in papers if you don't lend me a hand!".

Feeling like a great weight had been lifted off her chest, Lothíriel found it surprisingly easy to return his mischievous grin: "To tell you the truth, I was rather shocked when I first came here".

Éomer leaped on his feet then and stuffing all the papers on – she suspected, randomly chosen shelfs, he managed to clear his desk in a shockingly short time: "Much better. And now, I hereby declare that half of the desk to be yours, and this to be mine. This way, you shall be able to work more comfortably!".

Lothíriel re-arranged quill, maps and accounts in front of her, then nodded in satisfaction: "I think I'll work even faster now!", she declared. "I should be done with the report latest by tomorrow evening. Could we then check it to ensure I got everything right?".

"It's a deal", said Éomer, solemnly stretching a hand towards her. "Now if you don't mind, I'll take my leave and let you work in peace: I'm in dire need of a bath and clean cloths, but perhaps you'd like to join me for supper later today?".

"Gladly", agreed Lothíriel but before he could leave the room, she remembered there was something else she wanted to ask him: "Wait, you still haven't told me what kept you away for so long. Nor what happened to you", she said, pointing at the gash on his brow.

Éomer hesitated, the smile on his face momentarily faltering: "This has been the best return home I had in a very long time, let's not spoil it with a sad tale. I'll tell you all there is to know: just, not today".

* * *

In spite of that last request, Éomer left his study with a broad smile on his face. Lothíriel was recovering quicker than he had expected and it was refreshing to see her up and out of her room, keeping herself busy with his paperwork; not because of the help she was giving him – though he was immensely grateful for it, but rather because there could never be any happiness in spending one's life locked between four walls, mulling over the chain of event that have brought you there in the first place and consumed by the hatred for the people who had taken part in it.

He knew things between them were far from being settled but for once, he dared trusting the hope.

He had almost reached his room when upon rounding a corner, he found himself face to face with Runhild. The girl didn't as much as looked at him and headed down the corridor he had come from, an expression on her face that meant only one thing: troubles. Lots of them. Éomer grasped her arm and placed it under his': "Hello Runhild. Why don't you walk with me?".

She shot him a glare that would have killed a boar but was left with little choice but to follow him. His study being off the table, Éomer led her to his mother's solar: "Lothíriel mentioned you've spent a few days with your aunt. Is she alright?".

"Aside from the fact she claimed she had _broken her leg_ and had me riding in all haste to her aid when in fact, she had simply twisted her ankle and was playing her usual dramatic piece just to get some attention, yes: _she's alright_", she growled. "Now perhaps you'd like to explain what in Bema's name was Lothíriel doing outside?".

"So you saw us after all…".

"No, I didn't: your ridiculous retreat saw to that. But the whole town is buzzing about it and those idiots might find it _sweet_ to see Lady Lothíriel standing out there, but it's not!", she yelled to his face: "She should have been resting in her bed, not playing the good wife for someone who clearly doesn't deserve it!".

"Your father allowed her to leave…".

"And he shouldn't have!", she cut him short. "Lothíriel _must_ not leave her room – not until the stitches are removed. And if you care one bit about her, then you should start making arrangements for her return to Gondor!".

Now _that_, took him by surprise. Runhild was way more than a handmaid to Lothíriel, just like Lothíriel was way more than _her lady_ to Runhild. The two of them had bonded in a way that had greatly surpassed his most optimistic expectations and their friendship had ultimately saved Lothíriel's life. He knew earning Runhild's forgiveness would have been difficult, but he hadn't expected her to take that stance towards Lothíriel: "Why would you want her to leave?".

"Why would I want her to stay?", she shot back.

"You think she'd happy in Gondor? You think she'd be happy to go back to her father after what he did to her?".

"Happier than here anyway. And surely much safer", she mumbled, her lip quivering, her eyes darting away from him.

Suddenly, it all became clear:_ I should have known_, Éomer thought to himself as he approached her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and took a deep breath: "Look at me", he ordered. The girl reluctantly returned his gaze and he wondered how it took him so long to see it: Runhild was angry, sure. But above all, she was scared, terrified: "Whether Lothíriel will choose to stay or not, it's her decision. But I swear to you I'd have never asked her to stay, had I not known in my heart I can be the husband she deserves. And no matter what her decision will be, no matter how things will turn out between the two of us, I give you my word I will care for her and I will never let anything bad happen to her".

"Then why is Meregith still here?", she asked, her hands closed in tight fists.

"Runhild I…", he started to say, before being abruptly cut off.

"_A man like Éomer s wasted with someone like you_", she hissed. "Do you know when she told her so? On her very first day in Aldburg. _A more decent wife would deign Lord Éomer with her presence in the hall, but we both know you are not_, she spat once after you had just returned from the umpteenth patrol. _You're good for nothing_, she repeated her countless times. Oh, and remember that disastrous dinner in the hall? Do you want to know why Lothíriel reacted so weirdly when presented with the food? Because had she taken a bite of it, she'd have emptied her stomach in front of everyone. And guess who knew about it? Guess who insisted on having liver pies cooked? Why, Meregith of course!".

Éomer took a step back and rubbed tiredly his face: "Why didn't you warn me? Why didn't you tell me anything?".

"Because Lothíriel made me promise I wouldn't tell anyone!", yelled Runhild, throwing her arms in the air. "I was her only friend and I didn't want to betray her trust. Besides, I thought you'd have soon realized what was happening and taken action. Instead, months passed by and even after Gárwine finally warned you, what did you do? Nothing!".

His good mood evaporating like water in the sun, Éomer kicked his boots off and walked in circles around the table, careful to avoid the rugs and keep his feet on the cool floor instead. Was Meregith beyond saving? Was he making a mistake at giving her a chance to redeem herself? Should he simply banish her from his household instead? A part of him shouted that that was exactly what he was supposed to do while another, clung desperately on the hope she could change.

Even after moving to Edoras following his parents' death, Meregith had remained an important part of his life. Through the years they had kept a close correspondence and in her letters, he had often found the strength and hope he had so desperately needed. Reading them had felt like savouring once again his sweet childhood life: suddenly he could remember the happiness, the love of those days. Without her, the angry boy who had left Aldburg on his uncle's saddle would have turned into an angry, spiteful man. Without her, that boy would have never found the courage to forgive his mother for the way she had abandoned them.

Meregith had never given up: not after her husband's death; not after her son's passing. And maybe he felt like now _he _was the one who could not give up on her, _he_ was the one who could not abandon her: "I need to give her a chance, Runhild. I _need_ to do it".

"Even if that will cost you Lothíriel's life?".

"I told you already: I won't let any harm come to her", he told her slowly, emphasizing each single word.

"What about Dawyn? Why did you have to tell her about her? Do you have any idea how she felt, after learning of her death? Awful, that's how she felt! And guilty!".

"She needed to know".

"Why? So that you can use her guilt to convince her that Meregith deserves a second chance?".

"No!", he shouted back. "One of the reasons we got ourselves into this mess, is that we never spoke to each other and allowed other people's scheming to get in our way. I'm not doing the same mistake again, Runhild: I'll be open with her, I will allow no secrets nor white lies. Lothíriel would have eventually found out about Dawyn and it's better she learned it from me than from someone else. Besides", he added with a little grin, "I believe you are not giving her enough credit: Lothíriel is stronger than you think and even though it hurt her to learn of Dawyn's death, she won't let it bring her down".

Runhild gave him a sarcastic pout, the corner of her mouth slightly twitching: "Are you implying _you_ know her better than _me_?".

"Most definitely not!", he hurried to say, earning himself a reluctant smile. He walked back to her, took both her hands into his': "Thank you, Runhild. For everything: for being a good friend to Lothíriel, for your loyalty to her, for saving her life. Thank you for your honesty too: I know at the time it might have not looked like, but your scoldings have been very much appreciated and should you think I need some more in the future, by all means I'll be at your mercy".

Runhild solemnly bowed her head: "It'll be my pleasure!", she declared with a wicked smile. "Now, can I finally go see Lothíriel?".

"Only if you promise you won't get mad at her for being out of bed".

"Agreed", said Runhild, rolling her eyes in an impatient way.

"And", added Éomer, "if you promise you won't take it out on Eofor".

Runhild snorted and made for the door in quick, short steps: "Too late for that!", she announced before vanishing into the dark ally.

* * *

**Author's notes**: a little faster update this time. I was honestly quite stuck with the previous chapter and didn't particularly liked the result, but I felt much more inspired once I got it out of the way so hopefully this installment was a little more enjoyable.

Also: a minute of silence for poor Eofor who found himself at receiving end of Runhild's wrath.

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: yes, she finally found her strength!

_pzacharatos_: I surely will.

_Luinwen-2013_: seems not, which is actually quite sad for Éomer.

_Beancdn_: as Lothíriel said, she had been a spectator of her own life for too long and finally, she snapped and tried to change things one little step at a time. Life with Meregith will be hard and we shall see whether Éomer's gamble will pay off or not.

_Catspector_: I think is everyone's gut feeling, but for Éomer there is more at stake than just banishing a housekeeper – and I tried to give some depth to his reasons in this chapter. Lothíriel did the right thing by asking about her concerns instead of simply brooding about it, but her reluctancy at admitting it was Meregith who had instil them in the first place could be misleading for Éomer.

_Guest_: sorry to hear you don't like the story. I guess to each its own and it's normal some people might find it disappointing. While there are plenty of "evil" characters in this story, I tend to disagree about the lack of redeeming qualities – especially given we are a chapter 12 of a story that will be much longer than that. Lothíriel and Éomer themselves are far from being perfect, yet they are trying to be better persons. In any case, I'll take your review in a constructive way and perhaps in the future, I'll try handling things a little differently.

_annafan_: glad you're enjoying it! :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

_Aldburg, May the 20th, 3018_

In a stroke of unprecedented luck, the weeks following Éomer's return to Aldburg turned out to be some of the quietest he could remember to date. Although he was called a couple of times to visit some nearby villages, he always managed to return well before dusk and - most importantly, he was never forced to leave to go hunt some orcs.

A part of him feared those peaceful days were the calm that precedes the storm but even more so, he was determined to enjoy them for as long as he could.

Even without his patrolling duties to keep him busy, Éomer's days were hectic and packed with all sort of things to do. First of all, there was the orphanage: thanks to the combined effort of both him and his men, the project was now well ahead of schedule and assuming his good fortune would last him for another fortnight or so, the construction should be finalized by the end of the month. Add another week to arrange the interiors and the orphanage should be completed well ahead of the Midsummer celebrations. Of course, there was plenty to do at the stables too: together with Wulf – Aldburg's stablemaster, they had started discussing the best breeding opportunities. At the same time, there were several horses being trained and while most of them were chargers, among them was also a handful of very promising palfreys. One of them especially, a bay dun filly with a spirited - and yet sweet at the same time temperament, had caught his eye and he had spent several afternoons working patiently with her. On top of all of that, there were a multitude of other obligations he had to take care of: the city's walls needed to be patched in at least four different spots; a few silly disputes required his _wisdom_ – or rather said his annoyance, to be solved; both the smith and the armorer had been constantly on his heels; and the list went on and on…

But no matter how many people were constantly seeking his advice and requesting his presence, Éomer always made sure to find time for Lothíriel too: every day, he'd spend at least an hour sitting beside her in his study, either working on his own papers or helping her with hers'. Not that she needed much help, to be completely honest: she was quick to learn, had a quick mind and an obvious affinity at taking care of any paperwork in the shortest possible time. What was more, she was _very_ picky: once he had inadvertently shuffled some letters she had been working on and as a result, he had almost been kicked out of his own study! But he enjoyed the time spent together and didn't even mind being scolded for keeping his things in such a messy, disorderly fashion. Helping him with the housekeeping had given Lothíriel a purpose, a role from which she felt more comfortable approaching her life in Rohan. And the consequences of it, had not been long to show: the mood of the entire household had considerably improved and there was a general excitement every time she'd be around the hall.

On her side, Lothíriel had been mostly amiable and on those very few occasions when she had snapped and reacted harshly to someone or something, he suspected it had been out of shyness and awkwardness rather than anything else. In this, they were way more similar than he had anticipated: none of them was particularly good at dealing with unpleasant situations but while he reacted with anger when confronted with something he did not like, Lothíriel hid behind a mask of conceited aloofness instead. But it was just that - a mask, for in truth she was the most down-to-earth, kind, genuine young woman he had ever met.

Looking at her as she eagerly devoured the food in her plate, Éomer couldn't help but smiling: "Hungry?", he teased her, only to be rewarded with an icy glare.

"Said the one waving a chicken leg in the air…".

He laughed as he bit on it: "So how was your day? Did you manage to decipher those records from Caerdydd I gave you?".

"Partially", said Lothíriel, shrugging her shoulders. "It took me half-day just to sort them out: some were over fifteen years old, while others did not refer to Caerdydd at all. Which is hardly any surprising, given the state of your study: if anything, it's a wonder you found those records at all!".

Éomer rolled his eyes and sipped on his ale: "Despite what _you_ fussy people may think, I'll have it known I've never lost anything in my study. Everything I need is there, you just need to know where to search".

Lothíriel gave him a pointed look, one that actually reminded him of Éothain: "Of course. I mean, you erupted in an almost deadly coughing fit when touching those shelfs and you had to examine the content of _each _single one of them before finding what you were looking for, but far be it from me to suggest that place needs a thorough clean up!".

"You are making it worse than it actually is".

"_I_ am making it worse?", snorted Lothíriel with a half incredulous laugh. "Do you know what I found in that room the first time I entered? And no, I'm not talking of the mess on your desk, nor of your boots and shirt lying around. Though it _is_ a piece of clothing I am talking about, one that mysteriously appeared in my hand once I sat on the sofa. It was half-hidden behind a pil…".

"My braies!", groaned Éomer, hiding his face in his hands. When he had been called to ride to the Holbeck farm, he had hastily changed clothes in his study and he remembered tossing his breeches on the couch, where they probably stayed until Lothíriel accidentally found them. When he peeked between his fingers, he found her grinning at him: "Do you find this amusing?".

"Yes, almost as amusing as Ides' reaction when she saw them: she tore them from my grasp, run out of the room and never spoke of it ever after!".

"Alright, you made your point: my study needs to be cleaned up. Happy now?".

"Very much so!", she rejoiced, obviously very satisfied with his surrender. And if he had learned anything at all during those past two weeks, then he suspected she was not only going to insist on doing the clean-up herself, but she was going to enjoy it incommensurably!

As the maids cleared the table, Lothíriel stood from her chair and slowly limped towards one of the armchairs. Frumgar had removed the stitches since a few days already and finally, she was able to move around on her own. He knew the leg troubled her but in spite of the pain, she was determined not to let it get in her way. "You seem tired", he told her, seeing her eyelids getting heavier.

"Tired is good. Means decent chances of a good night rest".

Éomer put down Firefoot's genealogy – which he had been studying to find him the most suitable mating partner, and joined her by the empty fireplace: "Still having nightmares?".

"Yes", she admitted, staring blankly at the direction of the window. "But I reckon that the more exhausted I am, the less likely they are". She chuckled then, hugged her knees to her chest as she turned towards him: "Last week, I made the grave mistake of telling Runhild about it and she immediately declared she'd have slept in my room so that were I to awake in the middle of the night, she could keep me company".

"Did it work?".

"Oh, it worked splendidly: not one single nightmare. Alas, also no sleep at all because as it turned out, Runhild is even more hyperactive while sleeping than when she's awake!".

Éomer crossed his legs on the armrest and mirrored Lothíriel's position: "Why, what did she do?".

"Let me put it this way: Runhild is very, _very_ talkative in her sleep".

"Why am I not surprised at all?", he burst out laughing. "And? What did she say? Any entertaining anecdote?".

"Not at first: she was speaking in Rohirric and it was hard to make sense of her mumbled words. A few hours later however, she got a little more understandable and at one point, she turned towards me and asked whether I had seen her _flamingo_".

"Her_ flamingo_?".

"Yes! I told her she doesn't have one, to which she complained that _in my mind I do_, then turned the other side and went on sleeping. Later on, she started complaining that she was thirsty but could not drink because the watermill was broken, whatever that means. She must have stayed quiet for a while then, for I fell asleep. Not for long though: I was awoken by some strange sounds and sure enough, I see her kicking the blanket away, standing up – with her eyes wide open mind you, and crouching down under the bed. I ask her what she's doing, and she says – brace yourself for this, that she was looking for _her_ _cleaver_!".

"She was looking for _her_ _cleaver_?", asked Éomer, laughter suddenly dying in his throat: "Did she happen to say what she needed it for?".

"No", giggled Lothíriel. "She went on rummaging for a while, then climbed back on the bed and went on sleeping as if nothing had happened. I questioned her the following morning, but she could not recall anything nor explain what she had been talking about. Needless to say, I've been sleeping with my door locked ever since!".

"Guess I should do it too", pondered Éomer, "for I have a feeling Runhild might be way more inclined to use a cleaver on me than on you!".

Lothíriel laughed and for a while, they let silence be their companion. Their dinners in the solar had quickly become his favourite part of the day, a short quiet moment to tell each other about their day and get some much deserved relax. Sometimes he'd take the chance to catch up with his work, others he'd read a book. More often than not however, they'd both end up dozing off until eventually either Runhild or Ides would wake them up and prompt them to retire for the night.

"Éomer?".

He opened his eyes and found Lothíriel staring at him: "Hm?".

"I've meant to ask you since a long time: do you think I could visit Dúnor? I mean I know I can, but do you think it would be a good idea?".

"Why not?".

She swung her legs down the armchair and frowned: "I don't know, maybe he doesn't wish to see me. Besides, I'm not very good children: what if I go there and can't find anything appropriate to say?".

"He lost his parents, Lothíriel. There's no appropriate thing you can say that will bring them back, but that does not mean you should not go visit him. I spoke to him a few days ago and he asked me about you, so I think he'd be happy to see you".

* * *

Afraid she'd lose her newly found courage, Lothíriel didn't waste any time and after a few hours of anxious mental preparation, in the late morning of the following day she set out towards Dúnor's house. Both Éomer and Runhild had offered to accompany her but in the end, she had decided to go alone.

Dúnor's grandparents lived in a small cottage located on the other side of the city. Getting there would take her no longer than a few minutes under normal circumstances, but going downhill with a walking stick and an injured leg was no small feat: she was often forced to pause to catch her breath and in more than one occasion, strangers offered her their help. Putting to test her shaky knowledge of the Rohirric language, she politely refused and shortly before noon, she finally came in sight of her destination.

Just like Éomer had told her, Dúnor's grandmother – Guthrith was her name, handled the common tongue with remarkable confidence and after a very warm welcome, she pointed her to the backyard. Lothíriel circled around the house with some difficulty: it had rained the previous night and her walking stick kept sinking in the mud while her right boot – which she sort of dragged along the way, was covered in an outrageous amounts of filth. Any annoyance at the dirty state of her clothes vanished however the exact moment she rounded the corner and spotted Dúnor for the first time after that faithful day.

The boy sat on a wooden bench and for a moment, she felt air was kicked out of her body.

She could see him bolting away from under the cart, she could hear him screaming in terror as he run away from those hideous beasts and for a moment, she felt a harrowing pain radiating from her leg, as if she had stepped anew into another of those traps. She winced, fought hard the urge to turn around and go back where she had come from: _I haven't come this far to give up so easily_, she told herself as she entered the enclosure. A few hens scrambled around her feet while in the far corner, two goats eyed her suspiciously: "Good morning, Dúnor".

The boy stared in surprise at her, then leaped to his feet and attempted a rather clumsy bow: "Good morning, my Lady". Seeing the chickens were making it difficult for her to advance, he shooed them away and made place for her. His cheeks were flushed red and as they sat next to each other, he glanced furtively at her, his brow furrowed and his eyes wide.

Assuming her presence there was bringing back all sorts of terrible memories and willing to distract him, Lothíriel pointed at the rudimental decoy standing in front of them: "Were you training?". Dúnor nodded and showed her a wooden sword: it was worn out and even to her inexpert eye, it looked way too long and heavy for him to handle properly. Mentally thanking Éomer's thoughtfulness, she unfolded the package she had carried all the way from the hall: "I think this will suit you much better".

Dúnor's eyes bulged out. His hand snapped forward, then froze mid-air: "Go on, take it", she encouraged him and this time, he did it without blinking an eye. He jumped on his feet, adjusted his grip around the hilt and tried swinging the sword: "It belonged to Éomer", she explained, smiling at the boy's excitement.

"Did it?".

"Yes, it's the very first sword he ever trained with. His father carved it for him".

Dúnor stared at it mouth gaping, brushed his little fingers on the wooden blade: "Can I try it?".

"Of course! As long as you promise to make good use of it, it's yours!", she told him with a wink and was immediately rewarded with the brightest smile she had ever seen. Dúnor rushed to the decoy and took his time to adjust his position: he placed his right hand below the guard, grabbed the pommel with his left one, brought his left foot behind the right one and finally, struck at his opponent with considerable strength. The decoy started leaning dangerously on one side and at the fourth strike, it surrendered and almost came down crushing on one of the hens: "You really showed him!", encouraged him Lothíriel, but Dúnor did not seem satisfied with his performance.

"Nay, it's the decoy: it needs to be better anchored", he complained, kicking it out of the way. "What of you, can you fence?".

Lothíriel grabbed Dúnor's old sword and held it hesitantly in front of her: "Can't say I do, but perhaps you'd like to teach me?".

"It's easy, let me show you!". Dúnor fixed the way she was holding the hilt, then took position in front of her: "See, you don't even need to stand! And now, left high", he said as he swung the sword above his head, "then left low and left high again. Can you parry?".

The first time she met his blow, Lothíriel's sword almost flew out of her hand. She tightened her grip and tried again: left high, left low, left high. Left high, left low, left high.

"That's much better!", praised her Dúnor - something she deeply appreciated because really, she ought to be the worse swordswoman Rohan had ever seen. "And now we do the same, but on the right-hand side. Ready?".

Right high, right low, right high. Right high, right low, right high.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this!", cheered Lothíriel and feeling a little too confident, she eagerly waited for the next charge. She parried the right high, she parried the right low but then, she swiftly changed to the left and before Dúnor could do anything, she lightly tapped his chest with the tip of her sword: "Got you!".

Dúnor stared with a frown at her sword, then shove it out of the way and gave her a look that should have warned her of what was about to happen: he grinned and all of a sudden, he started striking at her. Only this time, he did not give her any warning of which direction he would be coming from. Out of sheer luck, Lothíriel managed to parry the first few blows but that in turn made the whole exchange a lot more heated. Dúnor kept charging at her and the moment laughter started bubbling inside her, she was doomed: his sword came down striking her squarely in the middle of her forehead.

"Dúnor!", shrieked Guthrith, who had just materialized at the edge of the fence. The boy dropped his weapon and pressed both his hands on her head: "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!", he apologized and quite honestly, she wasn't sure who looked more horrified of the two of them.

Guthrith placed a tray beside her and removed the boy's hands: "Oh dear, this will turn into a bump. Dúnor, how could you be so inconsiderate?", she scolded him, to which he blushed and stared mortified at his feet.

"It's my fault, really: I had it coming".

"Shall I bring you something to press on?".

"No need, I'll be fine".

Guthrith shot her grandson a stern look and only after much insistence, did she finally accept her reassurances and left them alone to enjoy the lunch she had brought them: there were some vegetables and cheese, but also a couple of slices of aged meat and judging by the way Dúnor eyed them, she had a feeling it wasn't something they could afford eating every other day. Lothíriel put the tray between them and pushed the ham towards him, but from the bench's corner into which he had retreated, Dúnor still looked utterly contrite for the incident he had inadvertently caused: "You should eat, least when we resume our fencing practice you won't have enough strength to keep up with me".

Dúnor gave her a goofy smile and started munching on the meat: "You've never practiced with a sword before?".

"No, never even held one in my hand".

"Bow?".

"No".

"Dagger?".

"No".

"Are all women in Gondor that helpless?", he asked with the type of blunt honesty that only a child could be capable of.

"I'm afraid so", laughed Lothíriel. "It's considered improper for ladies to wield a weapon and it is assumed there will always be a man to protect them". Which, coming to think about it, sounded like the most stupid, ridiculous idea ever.

"I could teach you if you…", Dúnor started to say, before stopping abruptly: "Wait, do you hear that?", he asked as the faint sound of a cheering crowd reached them.

Lothíriel turned towards the direction the noise seemed to be coming from: "I do. Do you know where it comes from?".

"The training grounds!", yelled Dúnor. He jumped on his feet and stuffed his mouth with what was left of the meat: "Come with me, my Lady!".

He took her hand and started dragging her towards the street and it was only when she almost tripped and fell, that he finally slowed down and allowed her to set the pace. Though obviously impatient to get there, Dúnor held tight on her hand and when she needed assistance to overcome some particularly treacherous step, he gladly helped her. Luckily for Lothíriel, their destination was not very far away and as they finally approached the place, they found themselves facing an unusually thick crowd of people: "What is going on here?".

"The men must be training for the midsummer tournament and judging by the number of cheering gals, I bet Lord Éomer is here too!".

Lothíriel laughed at Dúnor's statement - that was surely something he must have picked for somebody else!, and followed him until they were confronted with a human wall of spectators blocking their way: "Oh no", cried the boy in dismay, "we'll never be able to see anything from down here!".

Lothíriel scanned the place in search of a way in, but every little spot had been filled and quite honestly, she was not too keen on challenging such crowd on her wobbly leg. But one look at Dúnor's pout, and she decided to give it a try anyway: she pulled him behind her and hoping no one would step on her, she tried squeezing in between two young lads, only to be promptly pushed back. She huffed and seriously considered the idea of putting into practice Runhild's notion of _making way _– meaning kicking and elbowing everybody around her, when a warm hand came to rest on her shoulder. She expected it to be Éomer – or Gárwine perhaps, but when she turned, she was met with Éothain towering figure instead. He sported a nasty looking bruise on the side of his face, but that did not seem to bother him: he stepped forward and literally grabbed the two lads by the neck of their shirts and tossed them aside as if they were nothing more but two tiny bugs standing in his way. The boys made for protesting but upon seeing his face and realizing _she_ was the person they had shoved back, they paled and meekly retreated further away. Needless to say, all those who were left standing between them and the fence dispersed at a similar record speed: "There, a nice premium spot for both of you".

Dúnor did not waste any time and rushed past her, climbing nimbly to the top of the fence. Slightly embarrassed by the way everyone was looking at her, Lothíriel hesitantly followed him and at long last, she got a first glimpse of what exactly was causing all that mayhem. The training field was a wide barren area, surely big enough to be used for horse practice too: to the left stood what she supposed was a barrack while on the right was a small tribune – by now packed with dozens of people. In the middle of the field, two people were circling around each other: one she could have identified among hundreds of others for even among his kin, Éomer's features and imposing figure were easily recognizable. Both his clothes and hair were covered in mud which – she supposed, meant he had been pinned to the ground at some point. He was sweating and panting, his eyes focused on the opponent in front of him: "Who's that?".

"Háca", explained Éothain.

"Never heard the name before", said Dúnor, staring in awe at the two men.

"He's new, recently moved in from the Hornburg. I don't know him well, but it seems Éomer has finally met his match".

Dúnor seemed positively outraged by that statement: "That will never happen, Éomer will trash him!", he howled, waving his fists in the air.

Lothíriel chuckled and focused her attention on the match: both men looked exhausted and the more they moved around each other, the slower their footwork got. Even so, there was an annoying half-smile plastered on Háca's face: he faked a left jab but Éomer did not fall for it, his counterattack making it clear once and for all that while the other man might have matched him in height and speed, when it came to strength they were competing in two completely different leagues. Háca parried his blow but was pushed back of a few feet and almost lost his footing; trying to take advantage of the situation, Éomer charged at him with a series of blows that had him retreating until he was with his back against the fence in front of the tribune. The crowd erupted in a roaring cheer and thinking it over, Lothíriel turned back: "Looks like you were wrong!", she triumphally declared, but the man standing behind her was some stranger, definitely not Éothain!

"He left, said he had stuff to do", said Dúnor before crying in surprise: "It's not over yet!".

Lothíriel turned just in time to see Háca rolling to his right and evading Éomer, whose sword clashed with a loud thud against the fence. She gasped and using her good leg, she pulled herself up the fence and bent forward to get a better view: thrown off balance, Éomer kneeled and tried to release his weapon from the beam into which it had gotten stuck. Seizing his chance, Háca lunged forward but somehow – she literally had no idea _how_, Éomer dodged him and finally managing to pull his sword free, he rained one blow after the other on his opponent. The crowd fell silent and for some long moments, it was only the fast beat of his strikes to fill the air. But then Éomer suddenly changed rhythm, left Háca parrying a blow that never came while he swirled around, his sword making it through his defence and coming to rest on the other man's throat. There was a long, astonished silence and then, a roar so loud Lothíriel thought she'd go deaf. By her side, Dúnor was yelling at the top of his lungs and though she could not understand what he was saying, she realized she was laughing almost hysterically: "You were right, he did trash him!".

"Of course he did!", said Dúnor with a proud grin.

Éomer stretched an arm towards Háca and the two men slowly walked out of the field. Many clapped their hands and glancing at the direction of the tribune, Lothíriel understood what Dúnor had meant with _cheering gals_. Indeed, there were way more girls than boys occupying the seats and none of them shun away from making clear who they were rooting for. Godliss and Trewyn were there too and though they kept for themselves and did not partake in the shouting, they were both eyeing Éomer in a way that she couldn't help but finding _extremely_ irritating.

The noise gradually subsided and as the next pair of riders stepped into the arena, most of the crowd dispersed. When she turned towards Dúnor, Lothíriel found him staring pensively at the ground: "I thought you'd be happier about Éomer's victory", she teased him.

"I am", he laconically said.

"Then what's the matter?".

Dúnor sighed and looked towards the barracks into which Éomer and Háca had disappeared: "Do you think I'll ever be as strong and brave as Lord Éomer?", he asked.

"You already are, Dúnor: you are the strongest, bravest boy I've ever met. But if it is proficiency with a blade you are talking about, then yes: I'm sure you'll be just as good as he is. No wait, what am I saying: you'll be much better than him!", she told him with a smile that went unreciprocated.

Dúnor crossed his arms on the fence and rested his chin on top of them: "I couldn't do anything", he mumbled, his little hands closed in tight fists. "After the wargs toppled the cart and killed my mum, papa got stuck under one of the wheels. He tried to break free, but it was too heavy. I should have helped him but I was too scared to move, stayed hidden under the wagon instead…".

Lothíriel felt her chest tightening: "There was nothing you could do, Dúnor. And were your parents here today, I'm sure they'd tell you that hiding was the right thing to do and that they are both very proud of you".

"I'm sorry for what happened to you and your horse, my Lady", he muttered, hiding his face in his arms.

Lothíriel climbed down the fence and careless of the pain in her leg, she pulled Dúnor to her and lifted him in her arms: "There's nothing to apologize for, nothing to be sorry about. None of what happened was your fault, none of it!". The boy flew his arms around her neck and started sobbing uncontrollably: unable to hold his weight any longer, Lothíriel sat on the ground and let him cry it all out. Some people approached them to offer help, but she waved them all away and waited patiently until Dúnor had calmed down.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were puffy and his breath ragged. Lothíriel wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of her dress and brushed back his hair. After a moment of hesitation, Dúnor mirrored her actions, his hands clumsily reaching for her face and her braid: "I like you", he said, sniffling and rubbing insistently his eyes. "People said you were mean and rude, but you are not".

"That's good to hear, for I like you too!", said Lothíriel, ruffling his dark blond hair and earning herself an enraged scoff. Dúnor got on his feet, picked her walking stick and as best as he could, he helped her standing up. His hands clasped nervously together, he looked up at her: "What is it?", she asked him.

"I know you are very busy, but would you come back visiting me from time to time?".

"I'd be happy to. And you know what? You can also come see me any time you want: just come to the hall, ask one of the guards and they'll bring you to me. How would you like that?".

"That would be awesome!", said Dúnor gallantly offering her his arm.

"I thought you wanted to see the men training?".

"I've seen enough for today. Come, Lothíriel: I'll get you home!".

* * *

As it was to be expected, the aftermath of his fight against Háca dragged well into the night and everybody had something to say about it: "For a moment, I really thought he got you", said Torfrith with a sneering grin.

Ten years ago Éomer would have laughed and waved the man's teasing away, but Bema was he right! He had known Háca to be good, had heard his own cousin praising his skills in several occasions, but it had been way too easy to underestimate him, what with that stupid grin on his handsome face and the fact he considered himself one step above everybody else. He was cocky and an insufferable braggart, but sword in hand there were preciously few who could keep up with him: he was fast, had the stamina of a bull and though it burned to admit it, he fought in an elegant, spectacular way.

"Guess winning this year's tournament won't be the usual walk in the park", said Éomer, wincing as he made for lifting his mug – a gift he had gotten when his sword had gotten stuck in the fence.

"Listen to him: a _walk in the park!_", snorted Éothain: "I think I'll reconsider my allegiance and start supporting our newcomer. Heaven forbid he might just teach you a lesson!".

"Remind me again, what did you say right after he sent you biting the dust? Something about kicking him until he had spat every last tooth, if I remember correctly?".

"Oh, and I stand by what I said! He comes one day, trashes us the following and doesn't even care for joining us for a round of ale afterwards. Pretty boy lacks manners, let me tell you", declared Éothain, earning himself a choir of approving murmurs from around the table.

Éomer let out a resigned sigh. Rohirrim had never been fond of strangers, but Éothain had always had an exaggerated distaste for them: "You'd lack them too, had you had Éoith eating out of your hand", he very innocently declared.

Éothain shot him a murderous glare. Éoith was one of the girls working at the _Green Gate_: lovely curly hair, ample bosom and a ready wit, from her very first day in Aldburg she had had half of the customers of the tavern – with Éothain standing firmly on the front line, flirting her relentlessly. However, in the year and a half she had been in there none had succeeded in their courting efforts. Until that day, that is: "_She_ was with him?".

"Saw them with my own eyes", grinned Éomer.

"Me too: they were headed upstairs…", said Torfrith, leaving the sentence purposely unfinished.

"Not Éoith!", groaned Éothain, collapsing with his head on the table.

Éomer knew he shouldn't have laughed of his friend's misfortunes, but Éothain's desperation was just hilarious: "Shall I search for someone who can give you advises on how to mend a broken heart?".

From under the table, Éothain managed to hit him with a treacherously precise kick in the shin: "You should be nicer to me, for I am in possession of information you might find very interesting".

"Meaning?".

"Meaning there was _someone_ very special in the audience today. Someone in whose presence you really wouldn't have liked to get your ass kicked", he said and judging by the way everybody was grinning around the table, he had the feeling he was the only one who had no idea what he was talking about.

One of Éoith's fellow workers approached them to refill their mugs, but Éomer politely declined. He waited until the girl had left their table, then poked his friend in the side: "Care to explain yourself?".

"Not sure whether my broken heart allows it…", he dramatically declared. His intention of keeping him on his toes was however ruined by Torfrith's smug smile: "Your wife was there. Not sure when she arrived, but she was very obviously very taken with your match".

Éomer leant back in his chair and he'd be lying if he said his victory over Háca hadn't suddenly become a whole lot sweeter. He wrapped an arm around Éothain's neck and pulled him to him: "Be a good boy and spit it all out".

Éothain tried wriggling out of his grip but eventually gave up: "She and Dúnor arrived shortly after you and Háca had stepped into the arena. Just so you know, I'm the one who got them a first-row seat so if you can boast about your victory with her, the merit is only mine! Anyway, you will be pleased to know that both her and the boy were extremely satisfied with your performance: last time I saw her, she had climbed atop the fence and was laughing like I have never seen her doing before!".

His appetite for drinking suddenly lost, Éomer released his friend and glanced quickly out of the window: the hour was late but if he rushed back to the hall now, he might get there in time to bid Lothíriel good night. "I have to go", he declared as he stood and pushed his chair out of the way.

"You haven't finished your ale…", Éothain started to say, but he was already making his way out of the tavern.

He stepped out and breathing deeply in the cool night air, sped up the winding road that lead to the hall. He was roughly halfway there, when Trewyn suddenly materialized by his side: "Good evening, my Lord". Éomer gave her distracted nod and deliberately quickened his pace, but the girl seemed perfectly able to keep up with him: "The night is young, how come you're already retiring? Surely you have plenty to celebrate after today's grand victory…".

Choosing to ignore her malicious tone, Éomer pointed at the bow on her back: "Did you practice too?", he asked.

"Yes, Godliss and I were at the target range. Midsummer celebrations are close, and so is the hunting season. Competition is though", she said as she shot him a languid look, "but I think this year we might just win the best prize!".

"Good luck with that", he muttered, rolling impatiently his eyes: _two more turns and we'll split ways_, he told himself, keen on getting rid of the girl as soon as possible and wondering for the umpteenth time how two fine men like Gram and Torfrith could have such harpies for daughters. Both Trewyn and Godliss were not only spiteful with anybody who did not belong to their closest circle of friends but – to make things even worse, shameless in their advances towards him. Ever since coming of age a couple of years back, they had been constantly on his heels: every celebration, every ride, literally _every occasion_ in which they could justify their presence, they would be there with him. At first, he had waved their attentions as nothing more than a passing crush; but things had not improved one bit and if anything, ever since announcing his marriage they had gotten a lot worse.

He didn't know what was not clear about the fact he'd _never_ want to have anything to do with them, but he was fairly sure that one more wrong move in Lothíriel's presence on their side, and he was going to lose his temper for good.

Éomer inhaled and was about to take his leave, when Trewyn lost her footing and tripped forward. His arm snapped and though he managed to save her from hitting the ground face first – a rather unpleasant experience as he had recently found out for himself, the girl scratched her palms and knees on the rocky terrain: "I'm sorry", she apologized, "It's rather difficult to watch one's step in this pitch black darkness".

Sighing impatiently, Éomer glanced towards the hall's highest row of windows and there, he spotted a flickering light: _Lothíriel is still awake_, he thought with a silly thrill of excitement! He turned back towards Trewyn but the moment he saw her bleeding hand and her ridiculous attempt to clean the dirt out of her wound, he resigned to the fact he had no other choice but walking her home.

He took the bow from her back, passed her a handkerchief she could use as a temporary bandage and offered her his arm: he forced himself to keep a slow pace – the last thing he wanted was for her to trip again and further delay him, reassured her she was not imposing on him – Bema forbid!, then wasted a good ten minutes convincing her mother that no, he was not interested in a cup of tea.

After that, he pretty much rushed out of the house and run all the way up the hall and the stairs leading to the last floor. He pushed the door to his mother's solar open but much to his disappointment, the room was silent and the armchair by the window sadly empty.

_Trewyn be damned!_

* * *

**Author's notes:** a couple of weeks have passed and things are slowly settling down in Aldburg. Lothíriel is gaining confidence in her newly acquired role and thanks also to Éomer's support, she has found the strength to face Dúnor for the first time since the accident. A couple of you had asked about him and as I'm growing fond of his character, I think I might give him a bigger role to play in the events that will unfold in the next chapters.

_readergirl4985:_ poor Eofor has everyone's sympathy! :) After so much angst, it was fun to write a sweeter chapter and finally set Éomer and Lothíriel on the right course. He's more into her than she's into him, but things are obviously evolving…

_pineapple-pancake: _glad it hit the mark, for cute and funny is what I had in mind. Lothíriel doesn't trust Meregith but at the same time, she wishes there was a way for things between them to work. To some extent, she understands what Éomer has gone through with losing both his parents and is aware that were she to admit it was Meregith who told her those things, Éomer might decide to cut all his ties with her. She doesn't want to be the one who caused this, at least not without trying to somehow get along with her.

_tyskvalkyrja:_ to be honest, it's a bit of both. The part about the geography of the East-mark is based off what Tolkien described in his books (hopefully I didn't commit any error!), but when it comes to things like specific villages or mines, I took the liberty of placing them where I thought it made more sense. It's nice to hear you appreciated it, for it does indeed takes some time to do all the needed researches (so, no: I don't remember everything off the top of my head, but I have the whole 20+ Tolkien book collection and many notes and bookmarks to help me!).

_Rho67:_ loved your review and I'm really happy to hear you've come to like this story too! The first part of the story wasn't easy to write either, but I thought it was needed to bring all the characters in the right place. As you said, both Éomer and Lothíriel behaved terribly, each for their own reasons. It won't be smooth sailing from here, but at least they now have each other's back!

_Catspector:_ Éomer has been given plenty of warnings by now and is very well aware of the risk he's taking. I know it might look like the easier solution to get rid of Meregith, but I don't think a man like him would turn his back on such an important part of his life without giving a chance of redemption. And to his credit, his decision of being fully honest with Lothíriel inherently mines Meregith's chances at interfering in their relationship. Of course that doesn't necessarily mean things will be smooth, but I guess it's a good start!

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx:_ finally! :)

_WildBright:_ we'll see if your prayer works! :) Yes, Lothíriel is slowly finding her place and gaining allies: Runhild, Wilrun, Ides, Eofor, Gárwine, Éothain… with the latter one there shall be some sort of confrontation at some point, as I think they have much to talk about. And now, Lothíriel has Dúnor too on her side. He may be just a child, but his friendship may bring some fresh hope to her life…

_Rubandepluie:_ it was high time!

_rossui:_ I moved in a new flat in March, so I totally understand how you feel (I will also admit on having still some five or six cartons hidden in my cellar…I'm sort of pretending they don't exist so I' don't have to unpack them!). The _men and melodrama_ surely had me grinning though. Not sure if you meant it in relation to the moving, but my boyfriend had some quite dramatic moments while going through it! :) It's _really_ nice to hear you liked the side the characters and found them adding to the story. It's not always easy to introduce them, but I think the story would be way too flat without them. Thank you so much!

_Guest:_ I will!

_Menelwen_: she's finally stepping up and it's nice to see the change it has brought to both her and the way she interacts with other people. You sort of hit the mark with the nightmare thing, as it's mentioned in this chapter. Of course the relationship is not yet at a stage where Lothíriel would ever think of asking such thing, but maybe in time… As usual, I love your reviews and I'm glad you came back to this chapter to re-read it and comment on it! Greeting from the Swiss summer!

_pzacharatos:_ thank you for your review! To be honest, not really. Aside from what we can assume to be more or less the canon appearance for Lothíriel (dark hair, grey eyes), I portrait her in my mind without having someone specific in mind. But I'll try to think about and if a name comes up of someone who I think would be resembling this specific Lothíriel, I'll let you know!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

_Aldburg, June the 1st, 3018_

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Lothíriel had to admit she was positively impressed. She had never liked scarlet dresses and always thought the colour didn't suit her, but it appeared she would have to make an exception: what Cynerith – Wilrun's mother and Aldburg's seamstress had come up with, was in fact absolutely stunning.

Out of the fabrics Éomer had bought for her, she had made four different gowns: a lilac one with a black silk belt that was the quintessence of a summer dress, what with its fluttering sleeves and pastel hue; a green one with golden details that was the perfect embodiment of Rohan's soul; and finally, two red dresses. One was rather plain and as such, ideal for day-to-day life. But the other was a completely different story: it had an off-shoulder neckline along which Cynerith had embroidered a delicate floral pattern that matched the one on the hem of the sleeves; a strategically placed belt ensured the dress accentuated her waistline while hugging perfectly her figure – even more so now that she had gained a few pounds and returned to her normal weight. Though the style was different and perhaps less elaborated than the one of Gondor, the overall result was no less elegant and the more Lothíriel looked at herself, the more she felt like falling in love with it.

"And?", prompted her Wilrun.

"And I don't know what to say, these dresses are all pretty but this… this is gorgeous!".

"Even if it's red?", she teased her.

"I don't know why I was so biased. Perhaps it's because of that other red dress that I have and never really liked…".

"The one you brought from Dol Amroth?", asked Runhild.

"Yes".

"Please", she snorted rolling dramatically her eyes: "_That_ thing fits you worse than a sack of potatoes!".

"It was supposed to be warm, not fancy!", she tried defending her Amrothian seamstress.

She carefully undressed and made for changing into her old clothes, but Wilrun stopped her: "Wait, there's one last thing you need to try on", she told her, holding in front of her a dress Lothíriel had not expected to see: "As a true woman of Rohan, you do need an adequate riding attire".

Lothíriel chuckled at those words: things in Aldburg were far from being settled, but she had been astonished to see the change her new attitude had brought. For months she had spent her days pitying herself and despairing at the thought of the life she had lost, of the loved ones she had been forced to abandon. And while it hadn't been easy to get out of the dark place into which she had locked herself, it was true that the moment she had embraced her new life and accepted the challenges that came with it, most of those around her had been nothing but supportive: Runhild and Wilrun of course; but also Éomer, Gárwine, Eofor, Ides… and all those people whose names she didn't even know, all those strangers who every morning greeted her with a smile and never hesitated to rush to her help. She felt like the moment she had given them a chance, they had done the same with her. And right then, _that_ was all she needed to try moving forward with her life.

"Was this also something Éomer asked for?", she asked, brushing her fingers on the grey skirt.

"Yes. I did not tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise. He also asked for a winter outfit, but there's time for that", explained Wilrun while she helped her dressing up.

The calf-length skirt came with a double layered upper-part: a light white blouse – perfect on its own on a hot summer day, and a matching jacket for colder days. Thinking of the Gondorian frilly riding skirts, it was hard to imagine something more different but then again: Rohirrim were more about practicality and less about appearances, so it made completely sense. A pair of black boots completed the outfit and once again, Lothíriel found herself staring in satisfaction at the mirror: "You must commend your mother on my behalf, Wilrun. I'm not that easy of a person, but I have to say these are some of the most beautiful dresses I've ever owned".

There was a light blush on her friend's cheeks but whatever she wanted to say, was lost under the sound of a resolute knock on the door – so resolute, she knew right away who to expect: "Come in", she called.

Éomer stepped in and leaning with one arm on the frame of the door, he gave her a very smug look: "Are you busy?".

"I was trying the dresses Cynerith made for me…".

"…but this was the las one, so we are done!", Wilrun cut her off, dragging a very reluctant Runhild out of the room.

Éomer moved out of the way to let them pass, then asked her again: "Are you busy?".

"As long as what you have in mind is something that can be done while wearing a riding skirt, I guess not".

"Excellent. Feeling up to a short hike?".

"A _hike_?", asked Lothíriel incredulous.

"Only until the ruined watchtower. I'd offer to carry you, but I know you wouldn't appreciate that".

"With watchtower you mean that creepy, ghosts infested, derelict building atop the city?".

"Derelict, yes. Creepy, perhaps. Ghosts infected, most definitely not! I didn't take you for one to believe such silly stories…", said Éomer, passing her the walking sick and offering her his arm at the same time

"I normally don't, but Runhild is terrified of that place and told me a whole bunch of scary stories about it".

"Such as?".

"Such as mysterious sounds and spooky flickering lights in the middle of the night…".

"Actually, that might have just been me!", laughed Éomer as he led her out of the hall.

"You go there at night?".

"Sometimes, if I can't sleep".

"Wait, are you saying a sleepless Marshall is to blame for all those talks about a cursed building in town?".

"No, no. The tower's reputation is much older than I am. But if it makes you feel any better, I've spent a lot of time up there and never encountered any ghost".

"That's a relief!", exhaled Lothíriel, bracing herself for a long and gruelling walk. The tower was not far above the city, but the path leading there was steep. To make things even worse, Éomer was one of those persons who are simply _unable_ to keep a slow pace: no matter where he was going, he was always moving in those long, quick strides. While normally that would simply require of her to rush a little in order to keep up with him, she now had to constantly pull him back to remind him that no, she could not nearly walk that fast in her current condition.

As they approached the top, a mild breeze enveloped them: unlike Dol Amroth - where the wind pattern was quite regular and predictable, in Rohan the weather was way more erratic. Even now that they were approaching the warm season, a string of more than three or four sunny days in a row was a rare event: rain was always behind the corner and strong winds battered the plains almost every afternoon, offering at least some much-welcomed respite from the rising heat. Even so, by the time they had reached their destination Lothíriel's new shirt was soaked in sweat and she was forced to pause to catch her breath.

She took the opportunity to take a first look at this famed tower: she didn't know if it was because of the bright day-light or because of Éomer's reassuring presence by her side, but she had to admit the place looked nothing like Runhild had described it. Sure, it was half-collapsed and in shambles, but there was absolutely nothing spooky about it: "This doesn't seem half as bad as I thought it would be!".

Éomer stayed strangely silent and as they rounded the corner, it became clear _why _he had insisted so much on taking her all the way up there: at the feet of the tower, strategically placed under the shade provided by a young maple tree, was a blanket and what appeared to be a generous refreshment. Lothíriel shot him a surprised look: "Did you prepare all of this?".

He nodded and helped her down, then took place by her side.

Resting with her legs stretched in front of her, Lothíriel fixed her hair in an improvised ponytail and took a moment to enjoy the landscape in front of them: though only marginally higher than the rest of the city, the view from up there was definitely worth the effort. She could see the hall and – if she was not mistaken, the window of her room; the city was little more than a distant buzz while far ahead, the White Mountains emerged from the summer haze in all their majestic splendour. "It's beautiful up here", she marvelled.

"I know. And in winter, when the air is clear and the peaks capped in pristine snow, it's even better". Reaching behind a musk-covered stone, Éomer produced a package and handed it over: "Open it up".

She did as bid and could not hide her stupor when she unveiled a leather-bound sketchbook. It was similar to the one she already had, just this was made of a much more refined paper: one that had been crafted using only the whitest linens and cottons; one that was not easy – nor cheap to find. It came with a little wooden box inside which were several pieces of black charcoal and red chalk. She made for taking one of them, then froze as she remembered about her new dress: last thing she wanted, was to stain it!

"Go on", encouraged her Éomer and throwing all caution to the wind, she took a piece of red chalks and tested its stroke on the paper: smooth and flawless, just like she had expected! When she turned towards Éomer, she found him staring with a strange look at something behind her: "Get ready", he warned her and right on clue, a loud whistle soared over the city.

"Look, it's one of the red kites!", cried Lothíriel, pointing at the raptor landing gracefully atop the ruined bastion.

"I know. This couple has been nestling here since a few years already; they laid their eggs in spring and now, they are raising their chicks".

Realizing there had been nothing fortuitous in any of that - the hike up there, the paper and the red chalk, the kites suddenly making their appearance, Lothíriel found herself at loss for words. All she could do was holding tight on her gift, her eyes shifting between Éomer and the tower.

"I remember when I first saw your drawings, I noticed kites were a recurring subject: you kept changing the pattern on their wings, but never really got it right".

"I know. Peregrines and buzzards are common in Dol Amroth, but I had never seen a red kite before. I tried so many times to take a decent look at them, but they always fly too high above the city: I could make the shape of their wings and tail, I could glimpse the red in their feathers, but nothing more than that".

"I believe you're about to remedy that. Look, the female's coming too".

Shielding her eyes against the bright sun, Lothíriel spotted another kite approaching the nest: "Are you sure it's a female? She seems much bigger than the other one", she noticed, her hands moving fast on the paper.

"Females _are_ bigger than males".

"Really?".

"Yes. I'm not sure if it's common among all raptors, but most of those I know share this trait".

"I didn't take you for expert. What else do you know?".

"Not much. But I do know they can live quite long – fifteen or even twenty years, and that when they choose a partner, it's for life".

Lothíriel observed the female landing in her nest, a large chunk of meat hanging from her beak. She fed her young ones and made a good show of herself before taking to the air again, and Valar was she beautiful! Her wings were tipped with black feathers followed by white patches underneath, while the upper part was coloured in the same reddish-brown of her body and tail. She glided effortlessly off the tower, flapped her wings only a few times before getting again into that slowly rising circular motion that she knew would bring her high above them, until she'd be nothing more than a tiny black dot against the blue sky.

As she turned the page to start a new sketch, Lothíriel risked a glance at Éomer: he lied on his side, eyes closed, head propped on one hand. The past two weeks had been hard on him: between Caerdydd, Grima and everything else going on, he had plenty to keep him busy at day and awake at night. In all honesty, she had no idea how he managed to do it. To her, even just caring for the household was an almost overwhelming task - so much that in the evening she was often so tired she'd almost fall asleep in her plate; yet that was nothing compared to what _he_ did: working in the stables, training with the men, helping at the orphanage, riding to nearby villages to settle disputes and solve all sorts of different problems, managing all those administrative tasks she was still unfamiliar with. Even without his patrolling duties, she could see how exhausted he was, she could feel what a burden it was to supply the whole city with all the strength and hope they needed to navigate those difficult times.

Yet in the midst of all of it, he had found the time: the time to get her a gift that would be worth in her eyes more than a thousand precious stones; the time to postpone more pressing matters just so he could spend a few hours with her while she improved her portraits. And that he had done so – Lothíriel realized, was just _so_ distinctively Éomer.

* * *

Cradled by the sound of the chalk scratching the paper, Éomer dozed off into an unexpectedly peaceful sleep. He woke with a start some time later, his eyes snapping open in response to a sudden movement around him: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up", apologized Lothíriel while she moved the basket with their lunch towards them.

Éomer stretched his limbs and snatched her booklet: "May I take a look?".

"Of course", she told him, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink.

Just as he had expected, Lothíriel had not wasted her chance of better studying her favourite subject. The first two pages of her book were filled with sketches of the kites: the pattern on their wings now finally mastered, she had focused on capturing different perspectives of their flight. Here and there she had sneaked in a few of different birds – a swift, a dove, a white wagtail, but it was the drawing on the third page that really caught his attention. With just a few well-placed strokes, she had managed to capture faultlessly the essence of that day: the ruined tower with the dangling nest; the sprouting trees and tall grass; the barely discernible profile of the city and – far behind them, of the White Mountains; a tiny blanket and two people, one sitting with her back slightly curved, the other lying by her side. He almost brushed his fingers on their outline, but stopped just in time to avoid smudging it: "Do you mind if I keep this?".

A sheepish smile being all the consent he needed, Éomer folded the paper and slip it inside his tunic. He waited until Lothíriel had arranged their lunch, then took a piece of bread and sliced some cheese on it: "Has Runhild told you anything about our Midsummer traditions?".

"Runhild, not really. Dúnor on the other hand, he speaks about it incessantly: not to put pressure on you, but you should know he'll be _very_ disappointed if you don't win the tournament".

"Don't worry, I have no intentions to let anyone break my string of five consecutive victories!", he proclaimed, his cockiness gaining him a pointed side glance. "Has he said anything about the hunting party that precedes the celebrations?".

"No, why?".

"A fortnight before the celebrations start, it's tradition for men and women to take part to a hunting trip. For three days and four nights, we set camp on some nearby hills. We split into teams of maximum two people and scour the woods: there's a trophy for those who catch the biggest game and all the meat is brought back to Aldburg, where it's aged and smoked to be then consumed during the festivities. The hunting trip itself doesn't have a name, but people refer to it as _the chase_".

"Oh, I've heard about that! I think Wilrun normally participates".

"Yes, she's good with the bow and normally joins together with her father. However, _the chase_ is much more than just a trip for hunters: there are always a lot of families tagging along and on the third day, there will be all sort of games and contests and even a traditional swim by the lake", he explained to an obviously interested Lothíriel.

"We have something similar in Dol Amroth but instead of hunting, we go fishing in the waters of Lond Cobas: afterwards, participants dock at a small island off the city's coast and feast on their catch. But it's not really a _family thing_. In fact, only those who are able to either manoeuvre the boats or do the fishing are allowed to join, which of course means I've never taken any part in it. I may be born and raised by the sea, but I am absolutely clueless when it comes to hooks, baits and fishing rods!".

"Well, you don't need to be knowledgeable about hunting to join _the chase_. Which is why I think you should come with us: the place where we camp is not far from here and if you don't feel up to riding, I can arrange a carriage for you. With plenty of families travelling with us, you will hardy be the only one seeking a more comfortable way of travelling. Your friends will be there too and I'm sure you'd enjoy a few days of rest and fun. Besides", he told her turning suddenly serious, "I'd like you to come: this year's _chase_ wouldn't feel right without you".

Judging by the way she was staring at him, Éomer suspected he had been a little too straight forward. But he truly meant his words: little less than a month had passed since Lothíriel had welcomed him home after his stay at Caerdydd, yet he already found it surprisingly difficult to picture Aldburg without her.

Lothíriel was unlike any woman he had ever met: she was young, naïve perhaps - and given the type of sheltered life she had lived in Dol Amroth, it could have hardly been any different. But she wasn't foolish nor insensitive and ever since taking the lead of the hall, he had seen her thriving like a blossom in the spring sunshine. She had proven herself a thousand times over, effortlessly gained everyone's respect and admiration. Yet she still thought so little of herself, could be so quick at chastising her own mishaps: in a world of confident women and – Bema help him, brazen suitors, Lothíriel's delicate strength was like a breath of fresh air.

One it had been way too easy to grow accustom to; one into which he wished he could delve deeper than he had dared.

But he knew Lothíriel needed to set her own pace and he'll be damned if he ruined all the progresses they had made with one bold hasty move!

"I will come", she just said, her eyes low, the blush on her cheeks deepening.

"Splendid!".

Éomer helped himself to a slice of dry meat while for her part, Lothíriel seemed perfectly happy with crunching one carrot after the other. He was a little concerned she'd have gone hungry with eating only raw vegetables, but as soon as she spotted the waffles and spiced honey at the bottom of the basket, all his worries were put to rest. Unwilling to ruin their meal with a topic he suspected being unpleasant, he patiently waited until they had eaten all their food: it was past midday by then and with the sun turning above their heads, they found themselves out of the shade and directly into the sunlight. Lothíriel didn't seem to bother though, her eyes closed and her head tilted upwards: "There's something else I need to ask you, and I'm afraid you won't like it", he prepared her.

"Why? Has something happened?", she asked with a frown.

"No, all is good", he reassured her, looking desperately for a painless way to address his concerns. "The day we rescued you and brought you back to Aldburg, Runhild told me some… things. I know she shouldn't have, but please don't be mad at her: she was out of her mind and worried sick about you".

"I honestly don't think I could ever be mad at her", Lothíriel told him with a nervous smile: "What did she tell you?".

"Something that I neglected at first, for I thought she was speaking out of anger and making no sense at all. First, she said your father and I had arranged our marriage without even informing you, which I thought ridiculous but later found out it was true. As such, I can't help but thinking of something else she said that day; something about you making yourself _physically sick_ about being forced here", he said and if he had ever hoped Runhild's words to be a lie or perhaps an exaggeration, the way Lothíriel paled was a sore confirmation of all his worries.

She rose to her feet and walked a few steps away, gave him her back while she stared in the distance. As much as he'd have liked to go to her and reassure her there was nothing to be anxious about, Éomer knew she needed her space: "We don't have to talk about it. I only brought it up because I'd never forgive myself, were something to happen to you just because I was too much of a coward to confront you about it".

Lothíriel turned around and with what looked like a great effort, she came back sitting on the blanket. Her hands clasped together, she gave him a little nod.

"As I said: if you don't want to talk with me about it, that's alright. I just need to know you are well – or as well as you can reasonably be, and that if you'll never need anything, you won't hesitate to ask. It doesn't matter whether it's me, Runhild, Frumgar or a stranger on the street, as long as you remember you're not alone here".

"I know and I'm doing…better", said Lothíriel, her voice thin, her fingers playing nervously with the fabric of her skirt.

"Good", smiled Éomer and knowing there wasn't much more he could do - at least not until she'd feel up to open up with him, he tried steering the conversation towards more pleasant topics. "Would you like drawing something else?", he proposed holding the sketchbook in front of her.

But Lothíriel shook her head: "Not now".

"Shall we head back to the hall?".

"No", she firmly declined. "Perhaps we could stay a little longer and enjoy the view from up here? Unless you have something else to do, that is".

"I have not: I had hoped you'd have liked it here and cleared my schedule for the day. I'll be happy to stay, but I think we should get you in the shade: I'm afraid you'll get burned if you stay any longer in the sun".

Lothíriel adjusted the blanket and hugging her knees to her chest, she sat opposite to him. They stayed so for a while, each absorbed by their own thoughts: the kites flew often back and forth but Lothíriel barely paid them any heed, staring off in stern concentration into the blue sky above them. Lying in the sun, Éomer did his best to savour every last bit of that rare moment of peace, but it wasn't long until the sound of hurried steps had him sitting up, a sense of foreboding growing inside him.

"Éomer?".

He took a deep breath and rose to his feet: _so much for taking the day off_. "Over here", he called.

Éothain's head peeked from the behind the wall and sure enough, the scowl on his face meant only one thing: bad news. By his side, Lothíriel too smelled troubles ahead and threw him a worried glance.

"One of the scouts you sent out has returned. He spotted fresh tracks of a large group of orcs heading west. If we ride now, we'll intercept them before they can reach any settlement".

"How large?".

"He reckons at least forty, all heavy armed".

Éomer sighed. He knew there would have been an end to that unusually calm period: he hadn't been on a patrol in almost a month and though there had been sightings of enemies, Éothain had always managed to dispose of them on his behalf. A pack of forty orcs however, was a complete different matter; one that needed to be addressed as soon as possible, before those filthy beasts could reach any village or farm and spread panic and death among an already weary population. He turned towards Lothíriel and gave her an apologetic look: "I'm sorry".

"It's hardly your fault, Éomer". He offered her his arm, but she shook resolutely her head: "Speed is not my strong suit and you're in a hurry. Go ahead, I can make it down on my own".

"That's out of the question!", he declared, but Lothíriel had none of it and Éothain too came to her support.

"Eofor is on his way up. He can help her getting back to the hall".

"That's settled then. Go on, no need to tarry!", she encouraged him, pushing him gently towards his friend. Éomer shot her one last look, then reluctantly set off towards the city. He only managed a few steps before Lothíriel called him back, her voice urgent: "Wait!".

He snapped around and for a long moment, they stared at each other. Lothíriel standing at the edge of the rocky spur where the tower stood, her mouth half-open like she wanted to tell him something but words wouldn't come out of her mouth. Him a few feet below her, fighting the urge to rush up there and snatch her in his arms, whether she'd have liked it or not.

"Thank you, Éomer. For this", she said pointing at the blanket, "for the book, for the dresses…for everything".

He flashed her a smile and bowed, his heart feeling a little lighter as he finally left the city.

* * *

With Éomer gone, days in Aldburg stretched unexpectedly long and tedious.

Though she had plenty of things to do, Lothíriel found herself unable to concentrate on even the simplest tasks. She kept telling herself she was simply worried for Éomer and his men for she now knew what terrible dangers lurked around them, but she knew there was more to it.

The past few weeks had been… good. _Really _good. In spite of the troubles her leg gave her, in spite of the recurring nightmares that kept her awake at night, in spite of the never overcome hatred towards her father, she had found an unprecedented sense of fulfilment in her new role. And while she had had the encouragement of most of the people around her, she knew she'd have never gone that far without Éomer. Up from the very first moment he had never doubted her, never questioned her motives, never even remotely suggested there were other things – such as the ever-present _caring for yourself_ her friends kept reminding her of, she could have done instead of usurping his place in his study. Perhaps better than anybody else he had understood that _that_ was the best way to tend to her wounds: he had spent days explaining her all the different aspects of running such a big household, told her everything there was to know about Aldburg and Rohan in general. He had never seemed bothered by her questions, never hesitated to correct a mistake or praise a job well-done. She had been so anxious at first, always asking him to check, cross-check - and check again, what she had done in order to ensure all was in order; but she had slowly gained confidence and by the time he had left the city, Éomer could barely keep up with all the things she was doing.

Often Lothíriel found herself thinking of that day at the tower. Not because of him asking her about her crisis, though the idea of speaking to him about it or - even worse, experiencing one in his presence, was utterly terrifying and humiliating. But rather because of everything else that had happened: in fact, after his departure and much to Runhild's dismay, she had often climbed atop the city's hill and spent long hours sitting on the cool grass, brooding over the unexpected turn her life had taken.

Much as she disliked agreeing with her father, she had to admit Éomer was every last bit of the honourable man he had bragged about. Granted, he was not perfect nor flawless and he did have a legendary bad temper; but he had a good heart and under the surface of the seasoned warrior, he could be a funny, sensitive man. One who seemed to be made in layers, so much that every day she felt like discovering something new and totally unexpected about him.

And it was so that after months spent ignoring and loathing each other, it was with no small amount of disconcertment that Lothíriel realized she was looking forward to Éomer's return: her gaze would often linger on the horizon, every sound even remotely resembling that of a horn her heart would start racing in her chest.

It was strange. And disturbing. And terribly upsetting!

Perhaps she should have been happy of how her relationship with Éomer was evolving but instead, she couldn't help but feeling confused and insecure. To make things even worse, she had nobody with whom she could speak about it: Runhild still hadn't completely forgiven him for what had happened to her and as such, it was better to avoid the topic in her presence. As for everybody else, talking about it would have resulted in inappropriate – and definitely premature, cries of joy: Wilrun and Ides especially had been rooting so shamelessly for something to happen between Éomer and her, that she was reluctant to even mention his name in their presence!

Exasperated by the long wait, a week after Éomer's departure Lothíriel decided to assess the status of Aldburg's cellars: she knew it was a long overdue task and hopefully, it would keep her busy for long enough to temporarily forget about her worries.

Though no one had been happy about it, she had decided to take Meregith with her. The housekeeper had been stubbornly avoiding her and since their last confrontation in Éomer's study, they hadn't spoken a single word to one another. In her heart, Lothíriel knew the woman was never going to warm up to her presence; but she also thought that if only they tried, they might have been able to reach some sort of tolerable form of coexistence. Besides, it had been Meregith who had always taken care of the food stocked in Aldburg's cellars, so who better than her could help her with that task?

They descended in the basement at dawn and just like she had expected, most of the morning flew quickly by. There had been no friendly talk between Meregith and her but if anything, they proved they could work efficiently together: "Here are seven wheels of cheese, three kegs of salted meat, six crocks of salted cabbage and five of potted meat", said the housekeeper, stretching on her toes to get a better look at what was hiding in the back of the cellar's highest shelves.

"This is considerably less than what was left after last winter", sighed Lothíriel, meticulously noting all the numbers down.

"It was to be expected: with all those families abandoning their farms and moving into the city, harvests are declining while resident population is increasing. But don't worry", said Meregith as she climbed down the stool, "we are still decently stocked".

"For the time being perhaps", pondered Lothíriel, "but Edoras is requesting that we send them a heftier than usual contribution".

"How much heftier?".

"Almost twice as much".

"Twice as much?", snapped Meregith: "Is it for the Westfold?".

"We are not sure, but Éomer thinks not. Which leaves the possibility open for more supplies to be sent to the Hornburg, should Prince Théodred call for help".

"That's ridiculous! What does Grima think we are? The granary of the Mark?", thundered Meregith and her rant would have probably continued, hadn't a sequence of loud thuds on the ceiling above them caught their attention.

"Are they trying to dig a hole into the floor or what?", she wondered.

"No idea", said Meregith, frowning at the swinging lantern above their heads: "We better get up there and see what's going on".

Lothíriel nodded and holding firmly on her stick, she headed upstairs: already since a couple of days she had started moving around without its support but whenever stairs were involved, she had no choice but going back to it. Meregith let her go first and adjusting patiently to her pace, she trailed a few steps behind her. The more they advanced, the louder the noises and shouting become and to the best of her ability, Lothíriel tried to make haste towards the hall. When she finally got there, she couldn't help but gasping horrified at the scene of utter chaos she was presented with: "What is happening here?", she asked, making way through the crowd and towards the crouching profile of Gárwine. He turned towards her and it was only then that she realized he was bleeding profusely from a gash on his nose: "Gárwine!", she called, rushing towards him.

"I'm alright, just a broken nose".

"_Just_ a broken nose?", she echoed him incredulous. Opposite to them, she spotted Balláf struggling to keep a man pinned to the ground while in the corner, Eofor and another guard were wrestling with a giant of man and having troubles at containing his glaring rage: "What's going on?", she asked again, but in the mayhem of the moment nobody seemed to be care a whit about her questions.

It was then that the man Balláf was holding back managed to break free and threw himself against the one Eofor was trying to immobilize. Next thing she knew, they were rolling on the ground, beating each other up until both their faces were a mask of blood: "Get out of here, Lothíriel", told her Gárwine, his words partially lost in the insults the two men were yelling at each other.

She hesitated, unsure what to do. But when in the heat of the moment Ides found herself in the path of the two litigants and got swept away and dragged violently to the ground, she snapped up and pushing people out of her way, advanced towards her: "Enough!", she cried, her shrill voice echoing in the crowded hall. All fell silent her and for a moment, even the two men who had caused all that mess froze. She kneeled beside the maid and helped her on her feet: "Are you alright?".

"Y-yes, my Lady", said Ides holding her elbow.

"Are you hurt?".

"No, I just hit my arm when I fell. It's nothing, really".

Ides had but just finished reassuring her, that again the two men resumed insulting and beating each other up. Balláf and Eofor managed to split them up and ignoring completely Gárwine's advise, Lothíriel placed herself between them: "You either calm down or I swear I'll have you chained and locked in some filthy cell!", she hissed, glaring first at one man and then at the other. The younger one shook Balláf off and seemingly a little calmer now, he backed off and even gave her a respectful bow. The older one on the other hand, tuned red and looked only moments away from doing something reckless: "I advise you think through your next move…".

"Gáror, my Lady", he growled.

"I advise you think through your next move, Gáror", warned him Lothíriel. Though still obviously furious, the man nodded and allowed Eofor to drag him back and at a safe distance from his intended target.

"And you are?".

"Dernda, my Lady", said the younger man, managing a smile that seemed quite inappropriate given the current circumstances.

"Gáror and Dernda, would you mind explaining what caused this embarrassing spectacle to take place in my hall? And I warn you", she said before they could get a word out, "if you try doing something stupid or start yelling again like two mad men, I'll not only have you shackled but gagged too! Do we understand each other?".

Gáror swallowed what no doubt was an insult and nodded. On the other side, Dernda bowed again: "Of course, my Lady".

"Good. Now, Gáror: what do you have to say for yourself?".

The man took a step forward, stood with his clenched fists hanging by his sides: "That swine", he hissed glaring at Dernda, "shamed my daughter and thought he could get away with it".

The younger man made for crying something, but Lothíriel was quick to shut him up: "Mine wasn't an empty threat, Dernda: you will speak when _I_ say you can speak. Do otherwise and no one will _ever_ get to hear your side of the story". His dashing smile vanished from his face, he shot her an angry look. "Go on, Gáror".

"A couple of years ago, Dernda moved into our village and became close to my daughter – Saewyn is her name. She was happy with him and trusting his intentions, my wife and I welcomed him gladly in our home, treated him like a son. Last winter, I even took him as apprentice in my workshop and told him I'd have left the place in his hands one day. All was well until a couple of months ago, when Saewyn and him grew suddenly apart. I thought it a lover's spat, but my wife soon realized Saewyn was pregnant: she confessed that _that_ bastard over there got her with child and the moment she told him, he cut all ties and declared he wanted to have nothing to do with her. I went looking for him, but he disappeared overnight and it wasn't until last month that I found out he had moved to Lewes and got another girl to warm his bed. I confronted him and instead of taking responsibility for his actions", said Gáror, his voice dangerously low, "he insulted me and questioned my daughter's honour!".

"Where is she?", asked Lothíriel: "Your daughter, Saewyn: where is she?".

"Here, my Lady", spoke a tiny voice. The crowd gathered around them parted to reveal a girl no older than herself, with beautiful auburn hair and eyes as green as emeralds.

"Does your father speak the truth?".

"Yes", she confirmed, her eyes low, her arms wrapped protectively around her swollen belly.

"Did Dernda…", Lothíriel started to say before pausing, unsure what was the best way to ask such question: "Did he… force himself upon you?".

"No!", said Saewyn, her eyes wide. "I loved him, thought we'd marry one day. I was so happy when I found out I was pregnant. But when I told him, he got angry; he said I knew he never wanted a child…".

"Was it true?".

"Yes", admitted Saewyn, "but it was only because we were young and he couldn't provide for a family. He claimed to love me though, kept saying he only needed time to set things right and then, we could move out of my father's house and be together as husband and wife".

"You are a liar!", yelled Dernda, almost managing to initiate another brawl with Gáror.

Lothíriel only needed one glare and Balláf produced a pair of shackles and forced Dernda on his knees, gathered his wrists and secured them behind his back: "Another unwarranted word and you'll speak no more. Do you understand?". A vein popped on his forehead, but he was left with little choice but agreeing to her conditions: "Excellent. Now – calmly and in the civilized way this hall demands, tell us what you have to say".

"She's a liar", he spat out, staring at Saewyn in disgust.

"Yes, you already said that. Care to explain which part of her story is a lie? Are you denying the paternity of the child she carries?".

"No. But she tricked me".

"She tricked you into getting her pregnant? How? A girl half your size stripped you naked and forced you to lie with her?", asked Lothíriel staring at him with an arched eyebrow.

An amused chuckle spread across the crowd and Dernda's expression grew visibly darker: "I don't suppose a Gondorian witch to know how such things work. Especially not one who has never shared her husband's bed".

There was a collective gasp and in spite of his bleeding nose, Gárwine stepped forward with a thunderous expression: "How dare you…".

"Silence!", demanded Lothíriel, her voice sounding firmer than she had hoped. Every single bone in her body cried for her to leave the hall and retreat to the quiet of her room, but it wasn't lost to her that if she ever wanted to earn her place in Aldburg, she couldn't back off at the first sight of troubles. Squaring her shoulders, she signalled Balláf to pull Dernda on his feet: "Then perhaps you'd like to enlighten me?", she told him, her face just inches apart from his'.

"Of course", he consented with a sneering grin. "I never promised anything to Saewyn, she always knew what was between us had _nothing_ to do with love. And I assure you, she was more than happy with our arrangement", he said with a malicious smile that made her wish Gáror would beat his face to pulp. Instead, the older man was as still as a stone, one arm wrapped firmly around his daughter's shoulders. "Because of it", continued Dernda, "she was supposed to take precautions. Precautions she decided to forgo without ever informing me, so that she could force me to marry her and provide for her and the baby. But I won't!".

Lothíriel never thought she'd be glad for having a heartthrob brother with a reputation spanning across all Gondor but alas, she was forced to change her mind: hadn't it been for Amrothos and all the hushed conversations she had eavesdropped throughout the years, she'd have no idea what Dernda was talking about! "These _precautions_, what would they be?".

"Why, herbal tea obviously!".

"Is it true?", she asked Saewyn.

"Yes, my Lady".

"Where did you get it from?".

"She bought it from an old woman living in their village. I spoke to her and she confirmed Saewyn has been taking the tea regularly for the past year and a half", said Gárwine.

"And she claimed it to be…reliable?".

Saewyn shook her head: "No, she said there are days when the tea alone may not have been enough and that Dernda should have…you know…".

"Pulled out", she finished the sentence for her and quite honestly, she didn't know who was blushing the deepest red between the two of them.

"Yes. I informed Dernda, but he said there was nothing to worry about and that the woman had no idea what she was talking about".

"Because she doesn't! Perhaps the herbs she sold her were spoiled, but then it's _her_ fault and _she_ should be the one to provide for this child!", cried the man.

Lothíriel looked down on him in disgust: "I'm not sure what I find more appalling: that even _I_ \- a Gondorian witch with very small experience in the field, know more than you about which precautions are safe and which are not; that after you spent months living with Saewyn's family and after her father even gave you a job, you'd think we would believe the whole _we were just having fun_ story; or that aside everything else, the fact this girl will give birth to _your_ child is for you totally irrelevant".

There was a chorus of approving murmurs and feeling her confidence growing a little stronger, Lothíriel turned back towards Gárwine: "What had your decision been?".

"I spoke with this fool a sennight ago already. I told him I didn't care whether he wanted to be a father or not: either way, he has to provide for this child. If he doesn't, not only Saewyn and her family will struggle, but the girl's honour will be ruined for good. He wasn't happy with my decision and came here today to appeal to Éomer's _better judgment_, as he called it. When I informed him that he is not in town and that I stood by my decision, he lost his mind and thought insulting me and Saewyn would have been a good idea. The rest you already know".

"I demand to speak with Lord Éomer! I won't leave until he has been made aware of this madness!", cried Dernda, looking every last bit of the lunatic Gárwine had described.

"Éomer is not here, we don't know when he'll be back and once he returns, he'll surely have more important things to care about than some scoundrel who can't accept the judgment of both his deputy _and_ his wife. So, unless you want to go to Edoras and appeal to the King himself for refusing to deal with the consequences of not being able to keep it in your pants, I advise you do as you've been ordered and never complain about it _ever_ again".

Dernda looked at her in a way that would have scared her, had he not been shackled and held firmly by Balláf: "You seem a little too outspoken for a Gondorian maiden. Perhaps Lord Éomer should ensure that while you don't allow _him _in your bed, you aren't entertaining yourself with someone else around here. Perhaps his trusted deputy over there?".

In spite of her whole body shaking with rage, Lothíriel did not back off: "I'll be sure to convey your concerns to my husband. No doubt they'll make him considerably more sympathetic towards you and your despicable behaviour".

Finally coming to the realization all he had achieved so far was to dig himself into an even deeper hole, Dernda surrendered and agreed to all their conditions. Shortly after, he stormed out of the hall: "Lothíriel?", Gárwine called her with a concerned look on his face.

"I'm sorry, Gárwine. I'm feeling quite exhausted and I think I shall better retire for the day", she excused herself, rushing already towards the stairs. He called her again but she pretended she had not heard him, sprinted ahead and did not stop until the door of her room had locked behind her. There, she exhaled deeply and without even knowing why, started sobbing desperately.

Luckily for all of them, at dusk of the following day Éomer and his men returned to the city.

* * *

**Author's notes:** I'm sorry for the delay! I had meant to warn it would have taken me a little longer to update, but I totally forgot about it. I've had friends/family visiting almost uninterruptedly for the past month and as such, no time at all to write. The next couple of weeks will be busy too, so I might be in for another delayed update. Hopefully the chapter was somewhat worth the wait and soon, we are all going on a chase! :)

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx_: she took her time, but she's fighting like a lioness now!

_pineapple-pancake_: I don't think Lothíriel is noticing the missed romance opportunities. She's getting into this at a much slower pace than Éomer and he knows that as much as he'd like to rush things, he simply can't.

_tyskvalkyrja_: I admit Runhild's dream are very much inspired to my best friend, with whom I shared a room while studying at the university – she truly said hilarious things at night! Even without Grima, Éomer was anyway forced to leave and while away, troubles occurred. Though Lothíriel did a great job at managing the situation, it's all taking its toll. Hopefully Éomer's return will put her mind at ease…

_rossui:_ yes, even though there hasn't been any romance yet it was high time for some sweetness! On Éomer's side, there was probably even more in this chapter and slowly but surely, Lothíriel is coming to see it too.

_elvinscarf:_ thank you!

_tgo62: _not sure she'll train much, but perhaps Dúnor can teach her the basics! :) Glad you like the last chapters!

_Katia0203:_ thank you so much! Reviews always brighten my day, so we're even :) Hope things will soon get better, for these are strange and difficult times. Stay safe!

_SwanKnightoftheNorth:_ sorry for the delay! As mentioned above, I forgot to warn I'd be late. At least it's a long chapter and hopefully you enjoyed it!

_Guest: _she will explain in the later chapters… :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

_Rohan, June the 10th, 3018_

The moment he set foot in Aldburg and spotted Lothíriel waiting for him, Éomer got the feeling something was wrong. And after a cold welcome and a few hours spent together, his suspects quickly became certainty: she was tense, edgy, and whenever she thought he was not looking, she'd stare intently at him, her brow set in a deep frown. He asked her about a dozen times what was wrong but all he ever got as an answer, was a shrug and the reassurance that she was simply _tired and a little stressed out_; and because the more he asked the more upset she became, in the end he decided to let her be.

It wasn't until the following day that he eventually found out _what_ exactly had caused that sudden change in attitude: when Gárwine had told him what had happened between Gáror and Dernda and what the man had accused Lothíriel of, he had stormed out of his study with the intention of riding to Lewes and skin the bloody scumbag alive. It had taken Gárwine all his power of persuasion and immense stock of patience to convince him that a murder was perhaps not the best course of action. And once he had blown off some steam and regained the ability to think straight, he had been forced to admit he was actually right.

Lothíriel couldn't have handled the situation any better. Her judgment had not been hasty nor precipitous, she had granted everybody the chance to speak and defend themselves and even when Dernda had insulted her and implied she was an unfaithful spouse, she had not lost her mind, stood her ground and put the man in his place. As Gárwine had rightfully pointed out, were he to rush to Lewes to inflict on Dernda a harsher punishment than the one Lothíriel had already decided upon, he might have just undermined what authority and respect her strength had earned her: even though allowing the man to get away with his despicable accusations felt wrong, it was indeed the best way to prove that not only he backed Lothíriel's decision, but also that in his absence, hers was the voice of the East-mark just as much as his.

One thing made his decision to let go easier though, and that was the fact Dernda had already signed up for the Midsummer tournament: he only had to make sure their paths would cross and then, he would crash his pathetic little bones and have him grovelling on his knees out of the arena!

With the departure for the _chase_ approaching, in the days that followed Éomer had little to no time at all to spend with Lothíriel. It also didn't help that whenever he managed to find a free moment, she'd promptly find some excuse to avoid him: he had meant to tell her he was proud of how she had handled the situation and that she should not concern herself with what Dernda had told her but in the end, he barely managed to greet her in the morning and bid her goodnight in the evening. And now, observing her as she sat quietly in her cart together with Dúnor and his grandparents, he couldn't help but worrying for also another reason: in spite of Frumgar's approval that she could ride, Lothíriel had been adamant about travelling in a carriage. That itself was not a problem, but upon leaving Aldburg earlier that day it had been impossible not to notice the anxious and almost frightened way she behaved around horses. He could understand that after what had happened with those wargs, she'd be reluctant to jump back in the saddle; and he knew that even though she rarely spoke about it, she had cared deeply for Rohiril and felt guilty for her terrible demise. But he worried that the longer she waited to face her fears, the more difficult it was going to be to get her back on a horse.

Holding back Firefoot, Éomer briefly entertained the idea of offering Lothíriel to ride with him; he quickly changed his mind however, when he realized that would have only served to upset her even more. So finally resigning himself to the idea of waiting a little longer until he'd be able to speak with her and reassure her there was nothing to worry about, he spurred his horse forward.

It was the mid-afternoon when they finally arrived at the camping site and shortly after, him and a few others set off to scour the woods and ensure the safety of the encampment: "Who will you be hunting with?", asked Wulf as they advanced towards the top of the hill.

"After last year's disaster, my initial intention was to team up with Gárwine".

"That must have broken poor Éothain's heart", grinned Torfrith, watching carefully over his shoulder to ensure the man was out of earshot.

The previous year – just as they had always done before, Éothain and him had joined the _chase_ together. They hadn't managed to catch anything during the first day but on the second one, they had spotted some very promising tracks. In the sultriness of an unusually warm summer, they had followed them deep into the woods: time and again they had climbed down a hill and up the next, until he had been _this_ close to conceding defeat and return to the camp. But then, he had seen it: the biggest boar he had ever laid eyes upon! About thirty inches tall and surely over two hundred pounds in weight, it would have made for a great roast and also earned them a sweeping victory in the hunting contest. They had approached him carefully but right when he had been ready to make his move, Éothain had turned suddenly green and collapsed on the ground, emptying his stomach of its content – a hefty breakfast and the outrageous amount of ale and liquors he had chocked down the evening before. Needless to say, his gasps had spooked the boar who hadn't thought twice about charging full speed ahead, with the result that the day had almost turned into tragedy.

"Luck is on his side", grunted Éomer as he advanced through the thick forest: "Between his broken nose and the fact Freca has caught a mild fever, Gárwine has decided to stay in Aldburg. I have no other option but teaming up with him but I swear that if I catch him drinking more than a couple of ales between today and tomorrow, I'll use him as a bait!".

Both Wulf and Torfrith burst out laughing while behind them, Éothain shot them a curious look and quickened his pace: "What's so funny?".

"Nothing, nothing", assured him Wulf, the corner of his mouth twitching. When a light drizzle started falling on them, he lifted his eyes towards the gloomy sky and scratched his beard: "Let's hope the weather will improve".

"Wilrun doesn't like hunting in the rain?", teased him Torfrith.

"She can hunt in any weather, but her mother will threaten to divorce me if I bring her back soaked wet. And if by any chance she'll get a cold, I'll never hear the end of it!".

"Be happy that she's still willing to join the _chase_ together with you", consoled him Torfrith: "To Trewyn, I'm too old and boring to be fit as a hunting partner!".

Éomer bit down a snarky comment aimed at his friend's daughter and as they reached the clearing atop the hill, he signalled two of his younger riders. Despite the area being relatively safe, with so many women and children camping nearby he wasn't going to take any chance: he'd leave guards in a few strategic positions so that should anything try sneaking on them, they'd know it well in advance.

With the safety of the encampment now finally ensured, Éomer sent Éothain and Wulf back to the camp, while him and Torfrith split and went looking for firewood. He was but a few hundred feet from the first tents, when he stumbled into Dúnor; obviously keen on doing his part, the boy too had been collecting wood and his arms were loaded with a good haul of remarkably dry-looking twigs: "Not bad", he told him with a wink.

Dúnor smiled, revealing a gap where his incisors used to be: "Quality over quantity, my Lord", he declared with a weasel look on his face.

He didn't know if it was Lothíriel's influence, but the boy was definitely growing sassy! "Is this your first _chase_?", he asked.

"Yes", he confirmed, staring in disgust at a worm-infested tree trunk.

"And? Are you excited?".

He paused and thought long about it: "I'm excited for the hunting contest. And for the horseracing! I suppose I should be excited for Lothíriel's lessons too", he then added with some hesitation, "but I'm a little afraid".

"Lessons?".

"I can't swim", he admitted, his voice low as if he felt ashamed, "and when I told Lothíriel, she said she would teach me. I thought it a great idea but now that I see the lake, I'm not so sure anymore".

Glancing at it, it was easy to understand why Dúnor was so concerned: under the rain of the pasts few days the rivers had swell with muddy waters which in turned, had caused the lake to grow dark and murky. Not very appealing at all! "You'll change your mind once the weather improves. Besides, who better than a true Amrothian lady could give you a swimming lesson? You should consider yourself lucky, really: my instructor was an old friend of my father who just tossed me in the water and left me alone to fend for myself!".

"He did what?", gasped Dúnor horrified.

"Yes, you heard it right", he laughed. "But don't worry, I'm sure Lothíriel will be a better and more patient teacher".

"I hope so!", said Dúnor, taking a few steps towards the edge of the woods. Not far below them, an unusually large number of tents had already been mounted - spending the night with nothing but a starry sky above you was beautiful to be sure, but no one was keen on sleeping under a pounding rain. Walking alone along one of the streams feeding into the lake, Éomer spotted Lothíriel's unmistakable figure. The limp was still there, but with each further day her steps were becoming faster and steadier. Dúnor too observed her and knowing what a perceptive young man he was, he should have not been surprised by his next words: "She seems sad these days".

Éomer rested a hand on his bony shoulder: "I know".

"I asked her why, but she wouldn't say. Did you make her sad?", he asked and judging by his tone, he had the distinct impression that if forced to pick a side, the boy would always be team Lothíriel.

"No", said Éomer, though perhaps the answer to that question was way more complicated than that.

* * *

Lothíriel advanced through the bushes until she had finally reached the yellow flowers she had spotted from the river. She filled her basket with as many as she could find, then carefully moved on.

Her eyes fixed on the ground, she used her feet to shove aside the blades of grass and check what was hiding underneath. She roamed around for a while, so engrossed in searching out the soil that she didn't see the juniper tree until she almost bumped into it. She picked all the berries at arm's reach and as she then moved back towards the river, she found abundant watercress growing on its shores. She put down the basket and kneeling on a flat stone, she collected the herb: it was stronger than she had thought and not for the first time that day, she wished she had taken a knife with her.

"May I help you?", spoke a voice behind her.

Lothíriel jumped on her feet and snapped around, but almost immediately lost her footing and had it not been for the stranger's timely help, she'd have taken an early plunge into the water. "I'm sorry", he apologized, guiding her gently at a safe distance from the river: "I had not meant to spook you".

"It's alright, I simply did not hear you approaching", reassured him Lothíriel, and it was only then that she recognized who he was: "Háca, right?".

The man gave her a dashing smile, his arm indulging around her waist: "Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, my Lady".

Uncomfortable with the man's excessive confidence and proximity, Lothíriel stepped back and retrieved her basket: "I remember seeing you training with Éomer for the tournament", she pointed out, emphasizing the word _training_ just enough to remind the man that all in all, he hadn't exactly made a good impression that day.

If he caught the hint, Háca hid it well enough behind a condescending grin: "Should you be wandering alone?".

Growing quickly irritated by his persistence, Lothíriel crossed her arms: "I'm in sight of the encampment and there are plenty of guards around: I'm hardly alone out here!", she scoffed.

"Even so, it would be advisable to exercise caution: nobody – Lord Éomer least of all, wants you to make any further unpleasant encounters in the woods".

Lothíriel was about to explain him that as far as _unpleasant encounters_ go, she had already had her share when he had decided to stalk on her. But she was spared the effort: "Shouldn't you be at the camp?".

"What for?", asked Háca, obviously annoyed by Éothain's sudden appearance.

"Don't know. Digging a latrine, falling on your own sword… I can think of plenty of things you could be doing which are better and more useful than pestering your Marshall's wife".

"I was simply concerned for Lady Lothíriel's safety", he declared. He took her hand, kissed it and after one last scowl at Éothain's direction, he took his leave and retreated back towards the encampment.

"Bloody moron", muttered Éothain, staring at Háca's back in a way that Lothíriel wouldn't have been surprised, had the man been engulfed by a sudden burst of flames. "I hope he didn't bother you too much and of course, you can wander on your own around here. Éomer has placed so many guards that I doubt even a squirrel can make it to the tents without someone raising the alarm".

"He was starting to annoy me, but you saw to that".

"Have you been collecting healing herbs?", asked Éothain, his eye falling on the basket hanging from her arm.

"Yes. Frumgar mentioned the other day he was running out of a few of them, so I thought I could help him".

"What did you find?".

"Let's see: I have tormentil, juniper berries and watercress".

Éothain took a peek inside the basket: "I must admit, I have no idea what they are used for".

"Tormentil is very powerful against parasites. The seeds inside the juniper berries are used in a concoction that helps inducing labour. And watercress is helpful with preventing loose teeth", she explained to a very impressed Éothain.

"I didn't know you were expert".

"I am not", she chuckled, "but because of my leg, I've been spending a lot of time with Frumgar. His house is stuffed with concoctions, salves and ointments; I once asked him about them and found out the world of medicinal herbs is way more interesting than I thought it would be. It's fascinating, really: a bit like brewing a magic potion – minus the _magic_, of course".

Éothain smiled, obviously amused: "I shall better leave lady sorceress work in peace then".

"Wait", called him Lothíriel: "I never had the chance to thank you".

"For what? Getting rid of mister pretty face back there?", he said, pointing with his thumb at the direction Háca had taken. "That was a pleasure, one I'd be glad to reiterate at any time!".

Lothíriel didn't doubt that. However, that was not what she had been talking about: "My mother's necklace: you are the one who found it. It's one of the few things I can remember her by and to see it returned when I thought it lost, meant a lot to me. Thank you, Éothain".

He stared at her for a moment, his face then melting into a smile that was equally merry and melancholic: "Do you mind if I keep you company for a while?".

"No, of course not. I was anyway done with collecting herbs".

They sat next to each other and for a while, all they did was observing in silence the people rushing around the encampment: some were busy setting up the bonfire, others were mounting the last tents, and more than a few seemed already quite inebriated. "You and I, we got off on the wrong foot", he told her at last.

"We did. But then again, I started my whole life in Rohan off the wrong foot, so you're in good company".

"Still, I should have known better than behaving the way I did".

"Yes. In hindsight, mocking me to my face hasn't been a great idea".

Éothain groaned and rubbed his face: "You knew it?".

"I could not understand what you were saying, but your impersonation of the spoiled Gondorian princess was accurate enough to be rather obvious. And at least partially deserved, I supposed".

"I'm sorry, my Lady", he apologized mortified. "From the very beginning I was against this marriage: it angered me to see my best friend throwing away his future for the sake of a political alliance I've never been convinced of in the first place. I told him a thousand times he should have rejected his cousin's plan, but of course he didn't; such a fool I was, that I decided I did not like you long before I even had a chance to meet you. Little did I know you'd have proven yourself a better person than the most of us; and little did I know Éomer would have found happiness by your side".

Lothíriel's head snapped towards him, to which he laughed and gave her a playful little nudge: "Come now, did you really need _me_ to tell you that? When it comes to such things, Éomer is not exactly a master of deception!".

She looked away, her cheeks no doubt flaring scarlet. Seeing her embarrassment, Éothain wisely decided to revert back to the original matter of discussion: "So, now that I've confessed being a fool and that you admitted that should Éomer ban me from his Éored, I have a future as court jester; do you think we could start over?".

"Like pretending you didn't spend a week mocking me, and I didn't spend the same time mistreating and humiliating my husband's squire – to whom I still have to find the courage to apologize?".

"Precisely".

Lothíriel smiled and extended her hand: "You may call me Lothíriel. Nice to meet you".

Éothain stood and performed a very theatrical bow, but stopped short of kissing her hand: "Do you mind if I skip this part? You know, since Háca just kissed it…".

"Oh dear, I shall better wash it!", declared Lothíriel, holding her hand to her chest.

"More like scrubbing it clean", snorted Éothain, to which they both burst out laughing. "I shall better head back now; will you join me, or would you rather stay here a little longer?"

Lothíriel stood and placed her hand under his arm: "I think I've collected enough herbs for today. Let's go".

Éothain escorted her back to her tent and there, their ways parted. She observed him disappearing into the crowd and after some thinking, she decided to have walk around and see if she could find Éomer. With the rain finally granting them a break and patches of blue sky replacing the thick clouds, the place was quickly coming to life. The bonfire was almost ready to be lit and around it, stools and other improvised seats had been arranged in a broad circle.

With the help of several maids, Aldburg's cook was preparing what looked like a giant pot of stew and several roasted chickens; there were a few dogs around his feet, whimpering and wagging their tails in the hope of getting something to crunch on, but the man totally ignored them, occasionally muttering a curse whenever he stumbled on one of them.

At the far end of the camp, she found Eofor helping with the horses. Firefoot had already been taken care of and was grazing lazily on a pile of hay, occasionally whinnying whenever one of the other mounts came too close to his stash. _A short-tempered horse for a short-tempered master_, she thought with a grin, though that was hardly any fair: Firefoot had a much worse temper than Éomer! She remembered once while on her way to visit Rohiril she had accidentally passed too close to his box in the stables, and immediately his head had peered out to see who dared disturbing his peace!

The thought of her mare somewhat tampering her mood, Lothíriel walked wide around the improvised enclosure where the horses were being accommodated and roamed around some more. It wasn't until some time later that she finally spotted Éomer coming out of the woods: he was carrying a young deer across his shoulder and much to her dislike, he had Trewyn following him closely behind. She lost sight of them but found them shortly after speaking with the cook, who seemed quite satisfied with that unexpected addition to the menu. Half-hidden behind a pole, she silently observed them: they were a little too far and were speaking a bit too fast for her to understand every word, but apparently the girl had stumbled into the doe while searching for firewood and did not miss on the chance of an early opening of the hunting contest. The cook seemed amazed that they had managed to find game so close to the encampment, to which Trewyn whispered something in Éomer's ear. He burst out laughing and they seemed to share a joke at the expenses of the cook, for the man stared defiantly at them, holding an admonishing finger in the air.

"They'd have made for a great couple, wouldn't you agree?".

Lothíriel turned around and wasn't surprised to see Godliss standing there, eyeing her friend with a sad smile: "Everybody thought they'd have married one day, but things turned out differently", she told her, before adding in an apologetic tone: "Different doesn't mean worse, of course". She placed a hand on her shoulder - as if to comfort her, and then left.

Leaning against the pole, Lothíriel took a deep breath and tried thinking rationally: Godliss and Trewyn were best friends; they were also harpies – as she had had the opportunity to experience for herself; to boot, they both had a thing for Éomer. All in all, those should have been more than enough reasons to forget about what the girl had just told her. Yet the more she looked at Éomer and Trewyn standing side by side, the more Godliss' words echoed in her head: _they would have made for a great couple, wouldn't you agree?_

She did. Éomer was a handsome man, so different from the ones of Gondor: his blond hair and dark eyes surely set him apart, but there was more to that. Something she herself was not quite sure how to explain. One thing she knew though, and that was that with his golden appearance Éomer was Rohan's faultless embodiment. And so was Trewyn: tall, strong, fierce with her short sword hanging from her belt and the bow on her back, beautiful in spite of her muddy cheeks and stained clothes.

The more she looked at her, the more Lothíriel felt sorry, out of place, miserable even.

Sorry for Éomer, for hadn't it been for her and their arranged marriage, he could have surely found a much better wife for himself. Out of place because in spite of her best efforts, she knew she'd never be a shieldmaiden, never be the type of woman young girls look up to. Miserable because the more time she spent with Éomer, the more she wished she could be part of his and Rohan's life, the least she thought she could.

* * *

If he had hoped that finding a moment to speak to Lothíriel would have been easier once at the encampment, Éomer was soon proved sorely wrong. Between scouting the hills, collecting woods and helping Trewyn with her unexpected hunt, by the time he came back to the camp it was already dusk and in no time, he was sitting around the main bonfire with a generous portion of venison in his plate and a mug of ale in his hand.

He looked around for Lothíriel but unsurprisingly, she was nowhere to be seen. He was starting to think she might have retired already, when he finally spotted her sitting by one of the smaller fires which had been lit by the shore of the lake. She had a drowsy-looking Dúnor sitting in her lap while beside her, his grandmother was chattering non-stop in her ear. He honestly doubted she even heard half of what the old woman was telling her, for she stared intently into the flames, her mind obviously far away.

And it was Dúnor's words which came back to him in that moment: _she seems sad these days_.

Ever since returning to Aldburg, Lothíriel had effectively shut him out. Not only she blatantly avoided him, but she also stubbornly denied being troubled about something. But behind the placid façade she had put up, Bema knew to which extent she had been tormenting herself. Because ironically, the only thing that equalled that inner strength she didn't even know she possessed, was an ingrained, deep-rooted insecurity: she doubted her courage, doubted her intelligence, probably doubted her appearance even! And by now, Dernda's words had most likely dug a giant black hole in her head.

Éomer stood and dropping his plate in the hands of the first person he came across, he made his way through the encampment. He dodged the smith who wanted to share a drink with him, ignored the call of a group of riders, played deaf – and blind, when the music started and someone tried to get him to join the dance. When he sighted Trewyn and Godliss on his way, he steered towards the side of the camp and opted for a longer – but hopefully calmer way to get to his destination. He circled around the horses' enclosure and when upon rounding the corner he realized Lothíriel was no longer sitting by the fire, he muttered a half-curse and looked around. He eventually found her heading towards her tent, with Dúnor fast-asleep in her arms: "Lothíriel wait!", he called her.

She froze, hesitated for a moment before turning around: "We were just about to retire", she promptly informed him.

"I can take him", he offered.

"That won't be necessary, we are anyway almost there".

"His tent is on the other side of the camp, better I do it".

"No", she said shaking her head: "He was feeling a little down today so I told him he could sleep in my tent".

"What happened?".

"The other children made fun of him for not being able to swim".

"I see", sighed Éomer. Children could be the most innocent, darling creatures; or the most ruthless, naughty ones. To this day, he still remembered Théocanstan, the son of a rider in his uncle's Éored. He had only met him a couple of times when visiting Edoras with his parents, but that was enough to make quite the impression: in spite of being one year younger than himself, Théocanstan totally dwarfed him. He was tall, strong, and surely a promising budding rider. But he was born… different. His hair was white, his skin pale, his eyes a weird blue-greyish colour. The other children were constantly making fun of him and calling him all sorts of mocking names. Until one day, his father decided he had had enough: he left the Éored and took Théocanstan to live in an isolated hut, somewhere on the slopes of the White Mountains. Éomer never saw or heard of him ever again.

"He'll be aright", he reassured Lothíriel, "after all, he will soon be swimming better than a fish!".

"True", said Lothíriel with a stretched smile. "I shall better go now: I'm feeling myself quite worn out".

"If I promise I won't keep you up for long, will you join me for a drink?", he proposed.

"Maybe another time".

"Just _one_ drink and then I'll escort you personally to your tent".

Lothíriel turned and just like that, she walked away: "Tired as I am, I wouldn't anyway make for a great company", she told him looking over her shoulder.

Not quite ready to give up yet, Éomer rushed after her: "Come, it's unbecoming to make me beg you!", he insisted with a teasing smile. But all he achieved, was the exact opposite of what he had hoped for: "Can't you take a _no_ for an answer? I said I'm calling it a night, end of discussion!", snapped Lothíriel.

She circled around him and made haste towards her tent: "You can't avoid me forever; you know that, right?", told her Éomer.

She didn't even care for answering, slipping inside her tent and immediately securing the flap behind her. Shortly after, she extinguished the candles and then, it was all silent.

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Chasing her now would only lead to an even worse outburst and causing a scene in a place that offered zero privacy, was probably not a good idea. So after one last glance at her tent, he walked away and wandered aimlessly around. Between the weather finally improving and the ale starting to flow, the mood was as merry and loud as ever, with people dancing and singing in almost every corner. Not far from the main bonfire he stumbled into Éothain, perched on a stool, the children from the orphanage sitting in circle around him.

"…and so there I was, standing atop the bastion and scanning the horizon in search of our enemies. And then", he said with a dramatic pause, "I heard it".

A little girl shuddered and hid her face in the tunic of the boy sitting next to her.

"Just a rattling at first and I thought: Éothain, you won't let some little mice scare you! But the rattling came closer, and closer, and closer even. And soon, I realized it was no longer the rustling of some little rodent over the autumn leaves. No: it was a growl; and the scraping of long claws on the bare stone of the tower. So, I unsheathed my swords and with my heart pounding in my chest, I cried: _come forth, for I do not fear you!_ I raised my shield and prepared for battle, told myself that whatever devilry was approaching, _I_ would have defeated".

Éothain winked imperceptibly at him and with the children so focused on him and his story, Éomer easily sneaked unnoticed behind.

"Then, I saw it: body of a man, head of a dog, a mouth of sharp teeth awaiting eagerly to devour me. He stared at me and from the depth of his throat soared the most terrifying roar ever heard…".

Éomer took his chance and with a growl worthy of Éothain's story, he leaped forward and lifted in the air the two boys sitting in the back of the group. The children gasped, the scare soon turning into laughter as they recognized him: "Here comes the monster!", he howled, chasing them around until most of them had disappeared into the crowd.

"Works every time", said Éothain with a satisfied grin.

"You're raising another generation of citizens who will be unnecessarily terrified of Aldburg's old tower".

"Unnecessarily? I'm offended: I admit on adding some spooky details for dramatic purposes, but what I said is nothing but the plain truth".

"Really? Half man, half dog?".

"Saw it with my own eyes!".

"What you saw, was an old rabid dog. And you were so drunk, that you though it was some kind of monster", snorted Éomer, snatching two ales from a passing tray.

"Believe what you want, I know what I saw that day", declared Éothain. He made for gobbling the whole content of his mug, but one murderous glare and he stopped, opting instead for a little sip: "Did you manage to speak with your lady?".

"Yes".

"Judging by your scowl, I'm guessing it didn't go very well".

"She more or less cried to my face that she did not wish to have a drink with me".

"Finally, a woman immune to your charm!", mocked him Éothain. Seeing his frown deepening however, he stood and placed a hand on his shoulder: "Don't worry, she'll come around".

* * *

That night, Lothíriel couldn't sleep a wink. She tossed and turned in her cot and hadn't it been for Dúnor lying next to her, she'd have probably stood and kicked herself! How could she be so harsh with Éomer, when all he did was trying to understand what was wrong with her? How could she leave him that way, without even saying a single word?

Truth was, she felt torn between two halves. A defiant one, which was confident she could win her battles; and a cowardly one, which kept whispering in her ear that no matter how grand her efforts, she'd always be the same clueless princess who hadn't even realized she was being married off. And Valar did she wish she could silence that latter part! But instead, with every bitter remark and malevolent allusion, it grew all the more cumbersome and harder to live with.

And it shouldn't have. _She_ shouldn't let those people get to her head.

Yes, perhaps life would have been better if Éomer and her had never been brought together that way. But they could not change the past and there was no reason why they couldn't be happy together after all. So clinging on the flickering hope that thought gave her, Lothíriel awaited eagerly for the sun to rise. But of course, shortly before daybreak she finally fell asleep and didn't awake until a few hours later, when Éomer and all those taking part to the hunt had already left.

Knowing there wasn't much she could do apart from waiting and refusing at the same time to just sit around feeling moping and miserable, Lothíriel decided she'd enjoy the day as much as she could. After all, the _chase_ was a once in a year event!

With Wilrun and Runhild both gone for the day, she decided to go for a walk. Just like all had hoped, the weather had cleared and under a bright sun and a blue sky, the lake and the hills surrounding it looked like a totally different place. The water was now a deep blue, the grass looked greener than ever before and with the camp half empty, the place was now quiet and peaceful. Seeing the cook sitting on a boulder by the shore, Lothíriel decided to approach him to see if she could make herself useful somehow: "Morning Almód".

"Good morning, my Lady!", he enthusiastically greeted her.

Almód was what everybody would expect from a cook: a big man, plump and with a full belly, smiley and - at least back home, constantly wearing a flour-dusted apron. "Did you catch anything good?", she asked, nodding at his fishing rod.

"Of course I did! Just take a look over there", he said pointing at a large basket.

Inside were… fishes. Which type, she honestly had no idea: "What are they?".

"You don't know?".

"I'm decently knowledgeable about sea fishes. But freshwater ones, not at all", she admitted.

"Well, let me see: the elongated one with sharply pointed head is a pike, very tasty but tricky too, as it has fine, forked bones; the rounded greenish ones are perches, also quite palatable but not quite as much as the pike – not in my opinion at least; and the eel-looking ones are burbot, best served deep-fried".

"Will you cook them for dinner later today?".

"That's a possibility. Or,", he said leaning towards her, "we could have them for lunch and tell nothing to the others. After all, this is barely enough for the two of us!".

"Agreed", grinned Lothíriel.

Almód stowed away his fishing rod away and made a motion to follow him: "What was your favourite fish back in Dol Amroth?".

"Seabass, without a doubt. I also like sole, all sort of shellfish – clams and scallops especially, and lobster".

"Then I think I know what you might like", pondered he cook. He took a knife and with practiced movements, he cleaned the burbots and reduced their white flesh to bite-sized chunks. He added water and salt in a pot, placed it on the fire and then vanished behind the cart where all his tools and ingredients were stored. He re-emerged some moments later, holding a little flask, some fresh herbs and a cloth inside which was a piece of butter.

"What's in there?", asked Lothíriel intrigued.

"White vinegar", explained Almód. He waited until the water had started to boil, then added a spoon of it and while he waited for it to start bubbling again, he set to work on the rest of the ingredients. He finely chopped the herbs and smashed a clove of garlic, added everything in a saucepan together with the butter, carefully stirred it and let it cook. Seeing the water in the pot had started boiling again, he added the fish chunks and after only a few minutes, he pulled them out and drained them. He placed them in a wooden bowl and poured the sauce on top of them, then added what looked like a mix of salt and pepper: "There you go", he said with a smile, placing the food right in front of her nose.

It surely smelled good!

Lothíriel took one of the smaller chunks and chewed carefully on it, unsure whether there would still be bones inside. But Almód had obviously done an excellent job at cleaning the fishes, and even more at cooking them: "Oh my, this is good!", she said, licking shamelessly her fingers: "And so quick to prepare!".

"The best recipes are the quickest and most simple ones".

She nodded and tossed another piece of fish in her mouth: "The consistency is quite different from that of other fishes. Very firm and the taste… you know what it reminds me of?".

"Lobster?".

"Yes!", cried Lothíriel.

"Why did you think I choose to cook this particular fish?", laughed Almód, helping himself to the biggest chunk of burbot he could find in the bowl.

"The sauce too… delicious!", she mumbled, not even caring she was talking with her mouth full.

"Seems like I finally found something you _really_ like!".

"That's not fair, there are plenty of things you cook that I really like. Your roasts, for example. Or your baked onions. Or that chicken stew with dry raisins you served us last week".

"But not my liver pies I suppose", he teased her with a gentle smile.

"No, not your liver pies", agreed Lothíriel, glad they could both laugh of that whole infamous incident.

"Is there something else you dislike just as much?".

She thought about it for a moment: "It's not as strong as a distaste, but I do hate pickles".

"Pickles?".

"Yes. I don't like pickled vegetables in general, but cucumbers are by far the worse. Even if I remove them from my plate, they anyway leave that awful sour taste behind!", she complained, all the while devouring one piece of fish after the other.

"I'll keep that in mind: no liver, no pickles!", promised Almód. He collected the dirty cookware and as if bracing himself for a great effort, he stretched his neck and took a deep breath: "I shall better start preparations for today's dinner".

Lothíriel gave her hands a quick wash by the river and after some insistence, she managed to convince him to give her something to do. With all the more noble tasks ruled out due to her ineptitude in the kitchen, they all eventually agreed there was only one task she could take care of: peeling a giant amount of potatoes! She wore an apron and sitting between the brazier and Almód's workstation, she got down to work.

It was the early afternoon when the first men started returning from the hunt. Some had not had much luck, others had to make do with smaller targets such as hares and quails, but at least two teams had managed to take down more remarkable preys – a fallow deer and even a young boar. An eye fixed on the woods from which the _chasers_ were coming out, Lothíriel kept working; Wilrun and her father appeared shortly after, carrying a majestic-looking buck that earned them an enthusiastic round of applause. Behind them came Godliss and Trewyn, and she couldn't help but grinning as she noticed they were both empty-handed – and obviously upset by their unsuccessful hunt.

When at long last Éomer emerged from the woods, Lothíriel felt her heart in her throat. He stopped and exploiting his vantage point, scanned the encampment: when his eyes met hers, Lothíriel timidly waved a hand at him and instantly, his face broke into a broad smile. He descended quickly towards the campsite and when Godliss and Trewyn saw him, of course they tried to get his attention with some flirtatious remark. But Éomer didn't as much as looked at them, passing them quickly and even half-moving Trewyn out of the way.

Lothíriel put down her knife and wiped her hands on the apron: "How did the hunt go?".

"Good. Éothain didn't get us killed and we shot down a stag. Even more importantly, I found _these_".

He kneeled in front of her, took her hand and dropped a whole bunch of berries in it. Blueberries, blackberries; but especially another type: one she had never seen before, and yet knew right away what it was. _Lothíriel, you fool_.

"Raspberries?", she asked with a smile.

"Yes".

She popped one in her mouth and savoured it slowly. It was tart - just like the confiture, but less sweet and with more of a fresh taste.

"And?", prompted her Éomer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Lothíriel laid the rest of the fruits in her lap and there was a flash of surprise in Éomer's eyes when she bent towards him: "They're good", she said, her arms locked around his neck and her face pressed against the rough fabric of his tunic.

As if afraid even the smallest movement might have spooked her and ruined the moment for good, Éomer stood perfectly still, his hand only slowly coming to rest on her lower back: "Did you have a nice day?", he asked.

"Very nice one indeed".

"What did you do?".

She was about to tell him about all the unexpected culinary discoveries she had made, when she noticed Éothain coming out of the woods, struggling to carry a heavy looking stag towards the encampment. He stumbled on the steep slope of the hill and almost fell on the antlers: "I'd love to tell you, but don't you think you should help your hunting partner first?".

* * *

**Author's notes:** tough many of you wished Éomer had given Dernda a lesson, he decided not to. It might seem a questionable decision, but Éomer doesn't want people to respect Lothíriel just out of fear of what he might do to defend her. Rushing to Lewes like a madman would have served his ego but in the long term, it would have been nothing but harmful for Lothíriel's reputation. And though it took our dear princess some time to understand she shouldn't let rumours and unfounded accusations to come between her and Éomer, she's finally there and ready to enjoy the remaining time at the camp.

_Beancdn:_ indeed! :)

_pineapple-pancake:_ she did a great job but as it was to be expected, Dernda's words stayed with her. She also reacted the worse possible way, isolating herself and choosing to brood over those accusations instead of allowing Éomer to put her mind at ease. Godliss was also smart at seizing the right moment and playing on her doubts; but as Éothain predicted, in the end Lothíriel did come around it and now. After a disastrous start, Éomer is pretty much doing everything right and now, is up to Lothíriel to do the same and avoid falling into the easy traps of jealous and spiteful people.

_tyskvalkyrja:_ nice to hear you enjoyed it! :)

_Luinwen-2013:_ she did take a very mature stance with Meregith and hopefully, it will play out!

_AmandaBaker852:_ one little step at a time!

_Menelwen:_ Éomer was very sweet and attentive and slowly but surely, Lothíriel is coming to see him for who he really is. Meregith will be a bit of a gamble, but Lothíriel's approach was definitely wise and the best she could do under the current circumstances. At such rimes, I doubt the fact they are not sharing the bed could ever be considered a secret. There are plenty of maids working in the hall and alas, people like to talk.

_Guest:_ he'll give him the lesson he deserved, but also wisely chose to make clear that Lothíriel's decisions are _his_ decisions.

_Guest:_ of course he almost set out to kill Dernda, I mean did we really expect anything else from someone with his temper? :)

_rossui:_ she handled everything perfectly. Now, she only needs to become a little more confidence about her relationship with Éomer.

_xXMizz Alec VolturiXx:_ they both nailed it in that chapter :)


End file.
